


Harry Potter and the Tracks of Time

by viciousmouse



Series: Harry Potter and the Ticket Backwards [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Independent Harry Potter, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Time Travelling Harry Potter, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:00:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 99,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26743276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viciousmouse/pseuds/viciousmouse
Summary: While Harry's brave and desperate plan to fix the past is forging ahead, he is forced to admit that things are not going to plan. Struggling with the guilt of his mistakes and the weight of his ignorance, Harry also has to juggle some new, heavy responsibilities as everything seems to be creeping out from under his control. Follows on from Harry Potter and the Best Laid Plans.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter, Harry Potter & Percy Weasley, Hermione Granger & Neville Longbottom & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Luna Lovegood & Harry Potter
Series: Harry Potter and the Ticket Backwards [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1733899
Comments: 379
Kudos: 546





	1. Boxed In

Harry Potter sat in his school trunk, inside the cupboard under the stairs, focussing on his summer homework with the desperation of a man who had a lot to do.

And a lot to forget.

He'd been kneeling in the small room for hours, ignoring the prickles and tingling that fizzed within his ankles, his head bent over a large dish full of silver mist. The room he was in was not dim, but the pale glow from the bowl radiated upwards, catching his eyes, reflecting off his glasses, casting strange shadows upwards on his face.

He sighed.

Then he raised his voice and spoke to a dicta-quill that hovered to his right, eyes still fixed on the swirling silver. "Ursula Southeil came to the attention of witch hunters in Knaresborough, Yorkshire, in 1561, mainly due to her cursed well and favours she shared with local muggles. Although merely blessed with good sense and a Hogwarts education, Southeil's muggle neighbours widely understood her to be a prophetess or seer. During the superstitious witch-hunts of muggle culture in that time, Southeil's advice was seen as unusually present when – hang on, that says 'prescient' – prescient when instead she was merely giving perceptive insights. Ah, crap."

Raking a hand through his tangled hair, Harry abandoned his view of the Pensieve to grab the dicta-quill with his right hand and lean over to the parchment it had been scribbling on. With pursed lips, his focused green eyes skated down the page before, "Ah". Harry found the sentence he'd ruined with his misreading and quickly scratched the wrong words out.

Then he stretched. This was the last of his holiday homework, and it was conveniently easy to complete, copying – as he was – from the essay he had already written last timeline. After a few improvements thrown into the mix with a second view of his old reference books, Harry's homework would be drafted down and complete, ready for him to make a clean copy and pack it all up for Hogwarts.

It was a small success in the chaos that was currently Harry's life.

With a roll of his shoulders and the click of a couple of joints in his spine, Harry found the tension temporarily leave his stiff back.

He'd been working at quite a pace, and with the magnificence that was his Pensieve, homework and self-study were going very well indeed. The positive thought cut through a little of the stress that had surrounded him constantly for so many months.

The smoothly capable feeling his efficiency gave him was more satisfaction than Harry had felt for schoolwork in a long time; not since he'd figured out how to enjoy learning had study seemed so agreeable. His legs were suffering though, Harry realised with a frown. All the nerves in his legs were either tingling or numb, and that hot bite of thousands of ants startled him when he shifted his weight.

The discomfort drew him back into his body, away from the purely academic place he had been before, and Harry's mind escaped his grasp long enough for some intrusive thoughts to sneak in.

He frowned.

Homework successes notwithstanding, Harry suspected that this might be the worst holiday he had ever had. And that was taking into account, well, everything that had happened last timeline.

Sure, at least he hadn't gone and gotten Sirius killed this time – it hadn't quite been fifth-year – but he'd managed to realise he'd killed someone else instead. He'd done it in person, no less. With his own two hands.

 _Murderer_ was a new title he was still getting used to.

He didn't like the ring to it, but it rather put the moniker 'Boy-Who-Lived' in its place.

He shifted his weight once again, and re-catalogued the aches and pains in his body.

Before returning in time, Harry hadn't realised how much damage the various fights and curses had left him with. They'd all been healed, of course – more or less – but coming back in time had brought home what price he'd paid for survival. Being an inexperienced eleven-year-old again had come with the surprising advantage of much less pain as well as more youthful energy.

Now though, in the wake of a few realisations, things were changing.

Harry carried the stress in his body, in his bones. His stomach ached near-constantly, his headaches were ever-present, and he had once again taken to waking up from night terrors.

This new sense of guilt had become deeply familiar, and intensely unpleasant.

The owl-order of Dreamless Sleep from St. Mungo's was correspondingly appreciated.

Of course, if that was all it was, Harry would have been fine.

Unfortunately, due to the rather embarrassing way he had ended the school year, things had taken a sudden spin well out of his control.

Having been walked to the infirmary and into Madam Pomfrey's stern care in a somewhat public way, Harry was mortified by the subsequent fallout.

A number of his friends were owling him daily, now that everyone had separated for the end-of-year break. Neville was contacting him most frequently along with little gifts that Harry would have found touching, were the reason behind them not so embarrassing.

He now had a shelf and a half of small plant cuttings that grew in pots in his bedroom compartment; they were good for healing and rest and high-quality air, according to Neville's accompanying notes.

One of them crooned quietly to itself constantly; the mumblefern was supposed to stimulate rest, apparently.

Dear Neville, the good bloke that he was, was sending a new plant every few days.

Ron also mailed regularly; Errol's desperate arrival at the Owl Post Office had apparently alarmed them so much they had posted a note back to the Weasleys. Something about owl-care and expected working lifespans, to Harry's uneducated guess, most likely. Anyway, the fallout was that now Percy, too, was sending tonics and advice as Hermes winged his way towards Harry's post box carrying missives from what seemed like the whole family at times.

On whichever overseas holiday Hermione was on, she was apparently struggling to find owls, because she had only mailed him twice, but her letters were pages and pages long, full of advice and admonishments to Harry's somewhat irritated amusement.

She was obviously under the impression that Harry had overstretched in his preparations for exams. It was a rather obvious assumption on her behalf, since he'd managed to beat her grades – just, thanks to his practicals – while masterminding the plot against Lockhart, and she wasn't suffering under the same suppositions as the rest of what seemed like the whole magical world.

Carefully not looking at a corner of his study compartment, Harry closed his eyes and slowly breathed out a deep sigh.

He had fan letters again.

In the wake of the end-of-term chaos, he'd made the papers, Harry had discovered to his great disgust. It was somewhat ironic that his grand plan to have Lockhart kicked out of Hogwarts had reflected onto him, and Wizarding Britain was apparently under the impression that the poor orphan Potter was emotionally struggling with the betrayal by one of his teachers.

In the few letters he'd opened, it seemed that half of Britain was under the impression that he'd had some kind of close mentor-mentee relationship with Lockhart and that the shock of betrayal had sent him into some kind of health scare.

The other half of Britain apparently believed that in the wake of the death of his parents and the horrible remnants of Voldemort's attack, Harry had grown up to be a brave but sensitive child with some kind of permanent traumatic damage. Those were the letters in which people told Harry how much they pitied him, and how much they admired his "attempts to live a normal life", as Archibald Chadwick had put it so succinctly.

The widespread acknowledgement of his emotional fragility made it difficult to go into Diagon Alley for his food and his post. Witches and wizards now looked at him – quite visibly, with no attempt at subtlety – with pity and compassion in their eyes.

Mrs Weasley had invited him to spend the holidays in her home again, and despite his initial intentions, Harry just didn't think he could put with that kind of sympathy on a daily basis.

Therefore, he declined, and found himself stuck inside his luggage compartment in what was ironically even more restricted than any other holiday so far. In either timeline.

Dismissing the offensive fan mail from his mind, Harry's eyes glanced around the compartment he now sat in. Made of finest dragon leather, he had been assured when he bought that it was one of the most exceptional travel accommodations available to wizards.

The space wasn't small, Harry noted with fresh eyes, determined to distract himself from the pressures of the post that lay waiting. Each compartment was significantly larger than his cupboard, larger even than the smallest bedroom that had once been his.

Functional, sure, but not _extravagant_.

The four walls, floor and ceiling still looked vaguely draconian, never mind that the leather that made up the trunk had been charmed and enchanted many times over.

The deep dark brown that made up the space did not seem like the warmness of wood and panelling, no matter how hard it tried. Even the ceiling-high bookshelves, the desk, the high-backed chairs in rich colours and polished timber could not quite make the room look like a home.

He lived in a trunk, Harry knew, and it was impossible to pretend otherwise.

Putting aside his homework draft, Harry got to his feet and pottered about the room.

His footsteps on the floor – still dragon leather, although it had been somehow convinced to show grains in patterns that looked like wood – were muffled and soft. Harry padded over to the pile of books on the desk and picked them up with a grunting heave.

They smelled like ash and ink and oil, a familiar scent; Harry found the rich and subtle aromas of the wizarding world so much more homey than the muggle world, these days.

He'd take the bitter bite of potion fumes, the acrid sting of owl dander and feathers, the heavy layers of dust, and sweetness of holly and aspen over muggle cleaning products and heavily perfumed sprays any day.

In his own room, this temporary abode due to desperation and homelessness, Harry found himself breathing deeply as he slowly re-shelved them each by hand.

Despite all it lacked, this enchanted trunk of his was growing comfortable over time. The damp smell of well-watered plants drifted over from Neville's new gifts; his bookshelves were filled the room with Hermione's scent of parchment and ink – a weighty, scholarly fragrance that felt like years of familiarity; broomstick polish and a faint sprinkling of fairy dust – probably carried into the room on his cloak before falling to the floor – reminded him of Ron and Luna respectively.

As Harry's eyes scanned the bookshelves, as his hands mechanically sorted the books and he reshuffled the armload as the pile shrunk and lightened, Harry found himself acknowledging the smells absently.

Warmth.

Familiarity.

Peace.

The scent of the room calmed him down and brought his spinning thoughts to rest. His hands still moved – capable, dexterous – but with each breath Harry felt his mind slow, still, calm.

He felt himself falling into new habits, accidentally finding his centre. That small still pool inside of him was deep and cool and dark. His frantic thoughts spun out and faded away.

Harry found himself noticing the prickling of his skin in the warm, dry air.

His fingers brushed over the creased leather of his book covers, neither rough nor smooth.

The stray finger that occasionally brushed his bookshelves felt the dry polish of the surface; his eyes caught the golden reflections of light on the lustrous surfaces.

The weight of books in his left arm lightened with each book he returned to the shelves, and by the time Harry had reshelved everything in his arms, he knew exactly where his centre of gravity was.

His shoulders felt lighter than they had in months. His posture felt straight, precise, accurate.

Harry paused, cataloguing the feelings, and then turned to face the contents of the compartment.

This room was not what Harry dreamed of, he thought, his eyes glancing quickly over everything. Yet it had become dear in its familiarity.

His trunk represented freedom to Harry; with it, he had control over his own time, his own destiny.

The rich scents of the room became part of him with every breath; the floor was stable beneath his feet. Soft light caressed him from the wall scones, and the warm air was neither stale nor damp.

This, Harry realised, having surveyed his small domain, this was his foundation.

Everything began from here.

With his new perspective found in this moment of peace, Harry felt the world click a little into place around him.

He found himself looking over at the pile of fan mail and the stack of _Daily Prophets_ with a calculative eye.

Some just needed the formulaic response, Harry knew. _Dear so-and-so, thank you so much for your kind thoughts and good wishes._

Others could be referred on to the aurors – the creepy comments, the suggestive harassment.

And then within the pile, Harry knew, also sat a few more business opportunities that he really should consider now that he had time.

He'd been offered sponsorships months ago, Harry knew. And a number of opportunities to meet people or make a public comment about a variety of causes and commodities.

He should get onto those, Harry realised, with a clarity of thought that he hadn't enjoyed for ages.

Plus he needed to contact Professor McGonagall about his studies for the year – his plan seemed to be needing more organisation than he had originally hoped.

And Draco needed a letter or two. He'd given some very good advice, after all.

Harry didn't think it would be wise to use the _same services_ that Lucius Malfoy apparently used for his own business, but there was some research he could do to put Draco's advice into practice, and things would start moving.

Plus a donation or two to the _Daily Prophet_ – something along the lines of a public service donation – would put his year on track.

Harry walked quickly to his desk with a lightness of step that had been missing for a while and settled himself down in the leather chair comfortably.

There was a lot to do, Harry knew.

He pulled over a pile of nice parchment: not the cheap stuff, but the product Draco recommended for business communications instead.

Harry's eyes raked over the variously colour inks in the inkwells in front of him. Black was a classic, of course, but perhaps a deep burgundy would go well for a couple of the more…personal…of letters. The ones needing a more sensitive touch.

Grinning to himself as he hummed a little sound in the back of his throat, Harry dipped his quill into the ink reached for the blotting paper.

He couldn't be stuck in regrets the whole year, after all.

The smallness of the room no longer seemed to press in on Harry; he no longer felt trapped within its walls and it no longer seemed like the public judgement had hounded him into hiding within it.

Instead, the warm colours and cozy atmosphere seemed to support Harry, uphold him, as he held his quill, poised to write the first word in the first of many letters.

He'd be lacking in time, this year, Harry knew, but it was also the year he'd been looking forward to.

The one where everything started falling into place.

Thoughtfully, Harry nibbled at the tip of his quill, the feather fronds tickling the tip of this tongue. He'd had practise writing letters recently, so this no longer seemed too hard, but he did need the right tone for this request in particular.

 _Dear Mr Weasley,_ Harry wrote carefully in his very best handwriting. _I hope you are well. I am writing to you today in the hopes that you can help me with a number of sensitive issues, and I hope that I am not being too rude contacting you for this help._


	2. Food for Thought

A few days later, on Tuesday morning, Harry quietly let himself into the house on Privet Drive, having made sure to avoid Dudley, who was vandalizing the playground with his friends a few minutes away from the house. Harry thought it was probably some kind of post-birthday party exuberance.

As his dragon-leather shoes stepped quietly over the linoleum, Harry nodded briefly to his startled aunt, who was taking a moment to enjoy her tea in the kitchen. Judging by her startled twitch and the sudden splash of liquid on lino, Petunia had apparently not expected to see him during these holidays and Harry felt a little thrill of amusement and schadenfreude to see her discomfort. Then he promptly turned his back to duck into his cupboard under the stairs without giving her a second glance.

Petunia only had time to purse her lips before he'd dismissed her from his mind.

The house was quiet.

Since making his deeply regretted string of mistakes back before the beginning of first-year – _don't think about Hedwig, don't think about Hedwig_ – Harry had still not moved from his childhood space into Dudley's second bedroom. The doorframe seemed a little lower than before, perhaps a little older, but Harry's hands simply skimmed the rough paint and undid the latch with practised ease. Without H—any pets, Harry found that the space still suited him just fine. He only used the cupboard as a space for Apparition, after all, and the comforts of his very expensive, highly magical school trunk were more than enough for his daily needs. With no Hed—no pets, and with his own space, Harry found he had no need to draw attention to himself by speaking to his relatives at all.

But as Harry stepped into the very familiar cupboard under the stairs and recast the muggle-repelling spells that he kept up, constantly, while he lived at the Dursley's, Harry found himself re-evaluating his space with his newfound clarity of mind.

He paused only long enough to wave his wand quickly – Harry could cast the spells silently now, what with all the familiarity – and found he stooped a little lower than before when he entered the little dark space; then he banged his elbow as he manoeuvred himself around to draw the door closed behind him.

Breathing in what might be the only dust in the house, Harry felt a small twinge of frustration that he quickly quashed. The cupboard had obviously been untouched since he last lived there; the Dursleys should have known a growing boy needed better.

Better bedding, better space, better food. Better care.

But it was his own choice to take what was offered and suffer in silence. It was all part of his plan to get on better with them, after all.

Still, Harry noticed with a jaundiced eye, there was barely room for his luggage to open once Harry had drawn his growing body in behind the closed door and heard the latch click shut. Thank goodness for the magical enchantments that had been providing him with his bedroom – and library – for the past three years.

He was lucky there was still room for him to turn around!

If Petunia thought that he spent all of his time sleeping in the dark, Harry was happy to leave her to it. He didn't think of her much these days either, so he supposed he couldn't complain.

* * *

Once he'd settled in, Harry made good use of his time.

Having had his little realisation, the moment of clarity the other day, Harry found himself rediscovering the joy of his studies while ensconced cosily in his library compartment.

It came upon him slowly as his holiday homework began and Harry discovered he'd only spent three hours working on his Transfiguration essay.

He was having a good day, Harry thought at the time. It felt satisfying to have the words flow smoothly from the tip of his quill, for the thoughts to be within his grasp and the concepts to glimmer, clear and developed, in his mind.

But later that evening, as Harry completed labelling his hand-drawn diagram of common bloodmoss for Professor Sprout, he noticed that this, too, had been completed with unusual speed and clarity of thought.

He leaned back with a critical eye. Yes, he'd even got the fine details of the gametophytes right.

Harry tested the phenomenon out further by jotting down some potions notes from memory and checking his answers in the Pensieve.

Snape would have been horrified to see the ease with which Harry's ink flowed.

To his dawning joy and astonishment, it turned out that the absorption of new knowledge and the recalling of old knowledge was flowing more smoothly for him. His memories were managed with more ease.

His memory wasn't perfect: he couldn't quite recall details of last timeline's Daily Prophet articles, for example. Of course, that level of detail would have been a stretch for even Hermione, Harry liked to think and he hadn't really been paying attention to the few that he had read last timeline.

But overall, this was a great improvement.

The press of pressure on his temples and behind his eyes seemed to fade a little, and Harry found himself with a little more space to _think_.

Whatever his little realisation had done, it had worked well.

His Occlumency practice suddenly improved with leaps and bounds, now that Harry had the Pensieve to help him out and that extra space in his mind that encouraged his clarity. Shortly thereafter, his homework was done and out of the way, so Harry time and energy to focus on a number of things that he'd never done before. Concepts he'd never noticed and connections he'd previously missed could suddenly be explored. He'd never even considered half of these new ideas, and the freshness of the situation kept him excited if not quite _energetic_.

At least it let him put his exhaustion and trouble sleeping from his mind.

It was all very promising, and Harry couldn't help but carry a little bit of burning enthusiasm and anticipation in his gut. Perhaps this would be the year that everything went right.

* * *

In short, for the most part, Harry led his life with very little consideration for anyone else and found that there was satisfaction and enjoyment in focussing only on what seemed pleasing and worthwhile to him.

He'd even returned to enjoying his time in Diagon Alley with the help of a few charms cast of a hooded cloak, and was learning to ignore the curious looks and well-meaning pity that bled through when the occasional witch or wizard actually noticed him.

Potter Spotters, he tended to think cynically. Swallowing the lines of the Daily Prophet whole, as usual. However, Harry did notice that the venom in his thoughts regarding fans had lessened somewhat in recent years, and he couldn't actually work up much anger at the people staring at him as he walked. They were people, he remembered, and he meant something to some of them. He tried to dismiss them from his thoughts.

He was in the Alley for food anyway.

Three full meals a day – and not just in the Cauldron any more either, but all through the Alley and in Hogsmeade and Godric's Hollow just for variation – kept Harry alert and on his toes as the days passed by.

He bought new books too, to feed his new passions, and found that a little extra indulgence in his life brought about refreshing changes in his attitude.

The Pensieve, of course, was simply a cheat, and his revision and research were progressing with far less hassle than previously, leaving Harry free to indulge himself in good work and wise use of time.

It felt good.

* * *

A few days passed with relative ease and satisfaction, and soon Harry was back in his holiday routines.

Having woken up late – well, late for him – Harry apparated to Diagon Alley to collect his breakfast and post. The weather was nothing to write away about: overcasts skies were dim and the brisk wind was more wet than cold. Hurrying down Diagon Alley to the apparition point over damp cobblestones with ears chilled by the breeze that snuck into his cloak hood, Harry wished he had worn his warmer winter cloak.

He rather looked forward to spending the day inside.

It wasn't long before he stepped into the second compartment in his luggage and made himself comfy at his desk, his stomach pleasantly rounded. A quick warming charm had brushed away the clammy chill that tried to linger, and Harry's face was once again rosy and warm as he pulled his chair in and straightened his shoulders.

Harry cracked the first wax seal in his pile and carefully unfolded heavy parchment with interest.

A few friends had written: Ron was irritated by his little sister's energy and the twins' current series of experiments; Neville had somehow lost one of the knives from his grandmother's best silver cutlery set and now she was upset the collection was incomplete. Harry couldn't help but crack a grin. Luna had drawn him a picture of a Crumple-Horned Snorkack which Harry charmed onto the wall above his desk. He decided to look at it when he needed reminding to consider many perspectives. Plus, he thought it would help him relax.

Another letter from Percy gave Harry feedback on some of his homework and passed on he was happy to loan more notes to Harry if he found they were useful – Harry responded, _yes please_ , and looked forward to seeing more of Percy's insights.

Hermione was probably still overseas without access to any owls.

His quill wrote out replies quickly, light scratches filling his study with faint sounds. Then Harry's eyes crinkled in satisfaction as he folded and sealed up his notes back and moved on to listing down a few supplementary textbooks to track down before third-year.

He felt efficient.

His current lifestyle was certainly significantly fuller than it had been in his previous timeline, but Harry couldn't find it in himself to complain. Of course, there had been those few significant mistakes he'd made – he tried not to think about them too much – but overall, Harry felt that his quality of life was certainly better than it ever had been.

Well, aside from the little episode he'd had at the end of last term. And the headaches and stomach pains and night terrors. And of course, there was that strange sense of distance with Ron sometimes, that Harry couldn't quite explain.

But aside from those, Harry felt his life was more satisfying than ever.

Reaching the last of his letters, Harry unfolded Draco's parchment and read the news thoughtfully. The Slytherin boy, his newest friend, had some rather opinionated views on how Harry should spend his money, and Harry found himself tapping one finger against the cracked wax seal thoughtfully – Slytherin green with swirls of silver, naturally.

Draco did not call it 'spending' money, of course. In this letter, just like he had in many of the previous ones, he called it 'investing', although he also used words like 'diversifying', 'sponsorship' and 'future-proofing' too.

Sceptically, Harry quirked an eyebrow. He really didn't see the need to do this 'future-proofing'. He'd come out of Hogwarts just fine last timeline, hadn't he? Obviously, aside from the choosing to walk to his death thing. But he'd had lots of galleons in his bank vault when he'd done it. More money than he knew what to do with, at any rate.

 _Nah._ Harry put the letter down and began to push it to one side; he could turn Draco down later, once he'd figured out how to do it without insulting the kid.

Then a shadow in the corner of his desk caught his eye. Piled haphazardly, a teetering stack of unresolved correspondence was growing in the furthest corner of his desk. There was an increasing stack of fancy letters written on marbled parchments, quite a few heavy cream vellum pieces, and missives in official-looking scripts were beginning to pile up and up: the letters written by businesses, the offers of sponsorship, that list of advice from Draco, and some comments that Percy had made over time. Harry had started a to-do list that was filed in there somewhere too; there were a number of people he should contact.

He practically deflated.

There was…that was money stuff he really needed to deal with. He should probably write up a few more letters after all.

Harry dragged the pile over with minimal enthusiasm and settled down to focus.

Where to start?

He began scratching out another list: people to contact, stuff to do, questions to ask of…someone. He'd think of someone.

* * *

Over breakfast waffles at _Fortesque's_ the next day, Harry finished scouring the Daily Prophet as he usually tried to do and then turned his attention to the heavy business envelope in his hand.

It was obviously the high-quality parchment, a substantial weight to even just the vellum envelope on its own with very impressive writing in a cheerful royal blue: _Mr H. Potter_ was written with a number of curlicues boldly across the centre of the space.

Harry picked it up and hefted it gently in his hand. It must be a positive response, he decided, simply based on the money they'd spent on the stationery and the thickness of its contents.

The first step in what was rapidly developing into a complicated plan was complete.

Cracking open the envelope with a butter knife that was mostly clean, Harry pulled out its contents curiously.

There was a weighty patter as a number of papers unfolded from within his startled grasp and fell onto the table. A small cascade of folded sheets scattered across the tablecloth and Harry had to lean down to collect a couple from the floor. He hoped it was easy to put them back in order. Fortunately, nothing landed in the waffles or the quickly melting ice cream.

Hastily rearranging his cutlery and plate, Harry organised the papers and finally found the cover letter.

It was also written in blue ink, although a darker, more serious ink than what he'd noticed on the outside of the envelope. The writing was grandly written, with wide gaps between the lines leaving space for some very enthusiastic flourishes at the ends of words and within certain letters.

Harry couldn't help himself being intrigued and took an absent mouthful of breakfast while his eyes skimmed quickly over the pages.

Mr Weasley had outdone himself, recommending Harry on to Mrs Weasley's second-cousin the accountant, who had also gone above and beyond in respect of Harry's close connection to the family. Or it could be the fame of the Boy-Who-Lived, but Harry was choosing to think positively unless proven otherwise.

Harry's mouth thinned into a satisfied smile as his eyes raked the parchment. The letter was everything he'd hoped for.

_Dear Mister Potter,_

_I am delighted and honoured that you have chosen to contact me with regards to your enquiry. I would be pleased to represent your needs in matters of finance, through my business R &M Accounting. As such, I would be providing advice and auditing, as well as assistance in matters of income and inheritance tax in both magical and muggle worlds, the latter of which I would like to draw your attention to, if I may be so bold._

_Through our mutual acquaintance, it is my understanding that you have had little contact with the magical world until your Hogwarts letter, and at your young age have most likely not had your bequeathments looked at by any legal or financial representatives. Should you be interested in organising these matters, please sign and return the attached forms to engage me in your service, and I shall contact Gringotts post haste in order to learn what scope of service you specifically require of me._

_Please refer me to your legal advisor, if you have one. Alternatively, I am happy to recommend you to a reliable firm that will suit, if you have such a need. If you have indeed been blessed with the bountiful bequeathments that I expect of the Boy-Who-Lived, a legal representative will be necessary._

_I am also willing to provide you with financial advice on such personal and delicate matters as you have mentioned. However, it is my professional duty to inform you that you may be better served by engaging the services of a financial planner or stockbroker instead. I can greatly recommend a fellow squib by the name of Perseus Owen, who is more than capable of advising on and enacting investments and sponsorships within Wizarding Britain._

_On that note, if I may be so bold, it is my personal opinion that a wizard in your particular situation would gain significant financial benefits by investigating opportunities in both magical and muggle markets. I encourage you to consider such a proposition._

_I await your reply with all diligence,_

_Yours respectfully,_

_Archibald Rowle_

Harry sat back in thought, placing the letter carefully down on the checkered table cloth beside his plate. Bequeathments. It sounded like Mrs Weasley's second cousin – Mr Rowle, he supposed he should call him – was suggesting that some witches or wizards were so grateful that Voldemort had 'died' that night that they had left him stuff in their wills. Significant amounts of stuff, Mr Rowle seemed to be implying.

Draco would be insufferably smug; he'd been right.

Harry spared a moment to think about little old witches or wizards, or squibs, who might have died with no one to leave things to other than the Boy-Who-Lived. Perhaps their half-blood children had been killed, or muggleborn wives or husbands murdered. Harry supposed that if they had no one else left, leaving their gratitude to the Boy-Who-Lived wasn't that much of a stretch.

Thoughtfully, he scooped another spoonful of pale golden ice cream out of the bowl in front of him and sucked on it pensively.

Harry wondered why he had never been told these things in his previous life. That night he'd been delivered to the Dursleys, Dumbledore had obviously put up the owl wards himself, a realisation that Harry had come around to appreciate. No cursed mail was something he was now infinitely grateful for.

But as a side effect – or was it intentional? – he had been hidden from _all_ owls somehow, otherwise, surely the grateful wizarding public would have inundated his aunt's house with thank you letters over the years.

Had lawyers and family friends and fans been trying to contact him and now felt _ignored?_ It had been rather…isolating, Harry acknowledged, growing up without knowing anything. Was it, had it been _purposeful?_ Or simple negligence? Or had…well, the possibilities were myriad.

Spooning up another mouthful of waffle carefully, Harry thought about being angry at Dumbledore, but…he stopped. He didn't know all the details now, did he?

There was that strike against Dumbledore for Quirrell and the Stone that Harry was still bearing a grudge for, and in fact, the Lockhart issue also made Harry's frustration at the headmaster flare up again. Then he caught his spiralling thoughts. Harry only had one perspective on it, after all, and there were probably many things taken into consideration.

And he hadn't precisely been unhappy alone with the Dursleys. Unwanted, of course, but it's not like Harry was some kind of _victim._

Swallowing loudly, Harry caught himself nodding his head firmly. That seemed right. He'd coped very well growing up. The Dursleys had been normal enough, over the years. Since they hadn't abused him or anything, Harry had never _needed_ to know about the wizarding world before. Of course, it would have been _nice_ , but there were probably other factors.

And it wasn't like he'd really wanted to fit into the family and _be like the Dursleys_ anyhow. So, Harry nodded, so it had all worked out in the end, right?

Any other system would probably have been too complicated to work, anyway.

Even just the money stuff seemed overwhelmingly complex now, Harry decided, and he'd already lived through a decade in the wizarding world if he added it all together.

Harry supposed he hadn't ever needed any inheritance before now anyway – and the Dursleys would have taken everything they could get. Besides, who knows what any angry Death Eaters might have sent if owls had been allowed through at all.

Fortunately, Harry pondered as he sucked pensively on his spoon, he should be safe now that all his post came through the Owl Post Office.

The thought crossed his mind that Hermione would disapprove of his attitude. Perhaps he could have the Post Office pop up some more expensive wards just in case.

His mind wandered a bit while Harry absently finished his food. Then he recollected himself with a shake.

Biting his lip a little, Harry eyed the letter lying so innocuously on the table thoughtfully.

Then Harry grabbed a quill and parchment from inside his mokeskin pouch, and dashed off a quick reply to his new accountant. He would accept the services of the law firm and financial planner person as well. It surely wouldn't hurt him to be organised.

After all, if Hermione was in his place, she would be getting all the information and help she could.

Around that point, Harry realised with a muffled groan that he would have to stop off at the bookshop for some reference books on the topic before he went home. It felt like he was losing his precious breakfast peace, but Harry felt he should take the time to think the thing through properly.

At least it was third-year, and he should have enough time.

He finished off his vanilla bean and sweet potato ice cream with a slurp, and rose to post his letter before dealing with everything else.


	3. Acting Adult

Over the next few days, Harry found himself reading the Daily Prophet compulsively while he waited at the Dursley's house for his various plans to come to fruition. Despite how carefully and how often he looked, the Daily Prophet Grand Prize Galleon draw just didn't come out. When would the Weasley's win their trip?

Mr Rowle the accountant soon heard back from the goblins and wanted to meet Harry before he could get started. The lawyer was apparently delighted to be his legal representation, and wanted a meeting too.

There was some kind of discussion that they all needed to have together, and they hoped that Harry could make himself available at the earliest possible convenience since apparently things were _complicated._

As if Harry's life was ever anything but.

A few letters flew back and forth as they organised, and Harry was somewhat relieved that he was forced to use the Owl Post birds; a single owl making all these flights across Britain would have had rather a trying time.

Then the other expect got involved. The financial planner had all sorts of ideas on how to help Harry invest in the Muggle world, and was very interested in hearing Harry's thoughts, but needed to meet the lawyer and the accountant first.

Harry was advised to jot down his own ideas before they all met, so that it would be easier to guide the conversation.

Harry sent them all notes back.

And then while he waited for their responses, Harry often found himself flipping through the latest paper mindlessly, or apparating into the Alley for nothing in particular.

The momentum of time pressed onwards and Harry became full of drive to get something done, anything done at all. It became a little more difficult to stay shut up within his compartments.

Over the course of the week, Harry dealt with a positive flurry of letters from various parties – the owl wards put up by the Post people required some fine-tuning but now all letters that got through to him were guaranteed to be safe, and a few strangers were still contacting him and needing responses – but there was no news that required him to get up and out of the house just yet.

Harry kept waiting.

* * *

It was during the third week of the holidays that everything came together and Harry booked a small meeting room on the second floor of the Leaky Cauldon.

He arrived at the Diagon Alley apparition point with fifteen minutes to spare and strolled towards the Cauldron with the long, careless stride of someone who made the walk regularly. A few of the shopkeepers who happened to be outside at the time gave him a wave or two, or nodded a greeting. Word had gotten around the locals and regulars that the deeply hooded figure with the heavily shadowed face was the Boy-Who-Lived, and he didn't want sympathy. They seemed to respect that. They also seemed to be keeping his secret, so Harry nodded and waved back at the folks who he recognised as he passed quickly by, and into the dimly lit room of Tom's pub.

"Welcome back again, lad," Tom greeted him cheerfully from behind the bar counter as Harry stood blinking just inside the door, becoming accustomed to the dull and smoky lighting. "It's been a while since I saw you last. Finding breakfast and lunch from elsewhere now, are you?"

"Um." Harry panicked. "It's not like I don't like your food or anything. I'm just trying to add some variety to my life. I hope you weren't waiting for me? I'm sorry. I didn't think to tell you I was going to go elsewhere for a bit. It has been a while, hasn't it? I'll come for breakfast tomorrow, I promise. I'll buy lunch from you too."

Tom chuckled. "Easy there, lad. I meant no harm by it. You're welcome to swing by the ol' Cauldron whenever you wish, but you don' owe me nothing. I was jus' funning you."

"Ah," Harry exhaled. "Right. Sorry. Of course."

Tom shuffled down the counter a bit to step closer to Harry. "So what brings you to my fine establishment at this time then, young sir? You're not the type to swing by for an afternoon pint."

"True," Harry agreed with a stronger grin. "I think someone's booked a room for a group upstairs? For three-thirty, I think, under Rowle?"

"Oooh," Tom nodded. "You're with Mr Rowle then, are you? Very good at his job, that man, let me tell you, despite his obvious limitations. He often does his business here, due to the doorway, o' course." He gestured with his hand to the door leading to Charing Cross. "You'll get your money's worth out of him, I dare say." He leaned closer to Harry and whispered loudly. "He's got a lot to prove to folks around here, y'see." Then he straightened and said at a normal volume. "I'm glad to see you've connected up with him, young man. It does you credit."

Harry took a moment to realise that they were having a socially awkward conversation about someone not having magic. "Ah!" He realised. Then, "Thanks?"

"Good lad," he was told, and then Tom gestured to Harry to follow him up the stairs.

He trailed Tom over to an unexpected corner of the pub and a very skinny door opened to usher them into an even narrower staircase. It was not the stairway that had led Harry to his bedroom when he had previously stayed and used the inn, so this new discovery rather astonished him.

How had he never noticed it before?

The plain wooden panelling and roughly hewn stairs seemed very dark and sombre to Harry's curious eyes, even though the lighting was good, with gas lamps ensconced every foot or so up the stairs.

Combined with the low ceiling, even Harry felt suppressed as he stepped up the passageway, leaving him wondering how the larger Tom even fit in the space. But Tom stepped firmly and rapidly up the narrow stairwell, taking the twisting turns with a very light step that was at odds with his size and his build. Treading quietly behind him, Harry quickly realised that there were barely any sounds in the stairwell: no panting breath, no wheezing or creaking of floorboards. Only the soft rustle of fabric and the heavy scent of oiled wood filled the space.

Soon they stood on a shallow landing in front of a slightly crooked door frame.

"Here y'go, Mr Potter," Tom smiled, using Harry's actually name since they were no longer at risk of being overheard. "After you."

He reached out and swung open the door.

* * *

Harry looked into a cozy little meeting room. The windows looked over the muggle London street and were framed rather attractively with heavy velvet curtains. An elaborate, carved wooden desk stood grandly along the longest wall, surface polished and ready to use.

In the middle of the room lay a thick creamy fur rug, practically inviting Harry to take off his shoes and indulge in its softness. In the middle of the rug stood a short wooden coffee-table sized structure that was covered in a tidy stack of papers and some empty glass cups.

A small noise distracted Harry from his perusal of the furniture, and his eyes darted over to see a middle-aged man look up from one of the high-backed armchairs that surrounded the coffee-table. If wizards had coffee tables.

"Ah!" The man exclaimed. "The man himself! Come in, come in. Make yourself comfortable." As Harry stepped cautiously forward, Tom closed the door behind him and left the two alone.

The stranger in the room, dressed in an open-style robe with a muggle business suit underneath, turned out to be Mrs Weasley's cousin the accountant, who had arrived at the room a few minutes before him. The pudgy, middle-aged man rose from his chair as Harry was shown in and then stepped forward to greet him.

"Mr Potter, I'm Archibald Rowle. It's a pleasure to meet you," he beamed at Harry, pumping his hand enthusiastically. "An honour to be of service. I can't thank you enough for everything you've done over the years. I hope I do justice to what you are asking of me."

The man seemed very friendly and, due to his rather portly stature, seemed much more like Mrs Weasley than Harry had been expecting. Harry felt at ease with the man's mannerisms right away and felt some of the tension leak out of his shoulders.

"Hi," he managed with a smile. "I'm Harry. Harry Potter. Um, I suppose you knew that."

"Not a problem, not a problem," the accountant dismissed as he set about getting comfy in his chair again. Then he leaned forward with a small _hmph_ of effort and poured a cold drink for Harry from a pitcher in the middle of the table.

"We'll get down to business in just a minute. I'm sure you're very keen to work all the nitty-gritty details out."

"Oh…yes?"

Harry stood hovering awkwardly at the edge of the rug, a little of the nervousness surging back immediately and making his pulse jump. He had no idea how nauseous he would have been feeling if he had actually been the child that he looked like, because suddenly this plan seemed more complex than he'd expected. "That's fine. I mean, you're fine. Rather, I hope it will be fine. I don't really know what I'm doing, you know. So I'll be relying on you. Um."

The man, who developed more resemblance to Mrs Weasley the more Harry looked at him, beamed widely; it was rather easy to overlook his brown mop of hair and the unusually large nose to see the familial relationship. "That's why you hire the experts, Mr Potter. Between us all, we should get you sorted." He turned slightly towards the door at some noise Harry hadn't noticed. "Unless I'm mistaken, that's our third, just now."

The door opened again, and Tom looked in, this time showing another man into the small, office-like space. He nodded to Harry with a reassuring grin and a quirk of his eyebrows, and trudged back out without saying a word. The door clicked closed behind him, leaving Harry alone with the two unfamiliar men in the quiet.

Harry evaluated the new arrival carefully. The tall, elderly gentleman strode forward with a poised bearing and firm step, a simple walking stick made of some kind of dark wood tapping the ground in time with his strides.

"Erasmus Lloyd-Elliot," The dignified gentleman introduced himself with a slight nasal twang that reminded Harry of Draco's careful pronunciation, and held out his hand. "Of Lloyd-Elliot Associates. A pleasure to meet you, Mr Potter. I have been corresponding with your accountant, of course. Mr Rowle."

Harry's eyes were caught by the man's pale, papery hands and their neatly cut nails.

"Mr Lloyd-Elliot." Harry and Mr Rowle stood up from their seats and stepped forward. Everyone took a moment to shake hands and nod gravely before they collectively pulled up a seat and got down to business.

Being the youngest, Harry flung himself down the quickest and took advantage of the time that gave him to keep eyeing up the imposing lawyer. He took a moment to admire the lawyer's poise: the slender gentleman held himself like a genteel and elegant man even as he had to bend over to sit, and his salt and pepper hair was slicked back without a hair out of place. As he glanced up to meet Harry's gaze, Harry noticed the most magnificent grey eyebrows swept across his brows and angled upwards like an owl's. It gave his face a stern kind of look and added a piercing intensity to his gaze. While Harry stared, the lawyer spoke first.

"Mr Potter, what Mr Rowle may have mentioned in passing – that I shall need to highlight in detail for you first thing – is that a number of our tasks have been made complicated by that fact that you are engaging us at only twelve years of age. Do you understand?"

Mr Rowle grinned cheerfully. "Ooh, we're getting right into it then, are we? Good-oh!"

Harry's eyes flickered a little while he and Mr Rowle resettled themselves upright, into the posture for a serious chat, and then he frowned thoughtfully. "Because I'm not seventeen?"

The old lawyer smiled a thin, sharp sort of confirmation. "Correct. You are not yet a legal adult, and as such are unable to officially designate representation for yourself in legal or financial matters. Prior to this meeting, Mr Rowle and myself have been acting in your interests in an investigative kind of way."

Harry took a moment to look at a fuzzy spot on the carpet and peered up, face blank. "You've been investigating me?"

"Almost exactly," the man agreed. "In the wizarding world, all we are able to do at this moment is investigate what kind of services you might _potentially_ require if we _henceforth_ took you on as a _future_ client. All the information we can access at this stage is publicly available to anyone who might be interested." He hastily added, "And is appropriately qualified, of course."

Harry cocked his head. Mr Rowle was gamely nodding his head in agreement to one side.

The lawyer continued. "What this means practically for you is that we cannot access legal documents that pertain to you specifically, but rather those documents that mention you that are in the public domain. Nor can we sign anything on your behalf."

"I'm not sure I follow," Harry admitted.

Mr Rowle took pity on him, and translated the lawyer-speak into normal English. "What it means for you, Mr Potter, is that you can't hire us."

"What!?" Harry twitched and stayed gamely in his chair by dint of sheer will. "Is this a wizarding thing? I can definitely pay you; I've got loads of gold. I know I said I'd like to keep this away from my aunt and uncle, but I can probably get their signatures in a pinch. Bugger. Is it hopeless? Is there no other way?"

"Calm yourself," the lawyer replied, sending a very repressive scowl in Mr Rowle's direction. "We are meeting today because we have finally discovered how to work around this unfortunate barrier. Specifically, what this means is that we have had to resort to wills."

The elderly man leaned down with a surprising amount of speed and hoisted up a dark brown briefcase to lay upon his lap. To Harry's intense interest, he took out a huge stack of parchments and an armload of scrolls. Rapidly, he began sorting through them.

"These are," Mr Lloyd-Elliot continued, a huge stack of scrolls being placed carefully on the table and pushed left, "a number of bequests from a variety of witches and wizards to you personally." He leaned forward and gently tipped the pile onto the low table that sat before the three of them. "In summary, these have been bestowed upon you in gratitude for your role in eliminating the threat that was the Dark Lord." Harry stiffened for a moment – was the man a Death Eater? – but relaxed an instant later when he realised it was a phrase that neatly avoided the awkwardness of saying 'You-Know-Who' in a professional capacity. Harry felt vaguely impressed by the thoughtfulness.

The man continued. "They are simply instructions to give you a part, or occasionally the whole, of their post-mortem estate. These deal with wealth, not your person and having been through the will reading process are available for access. All very interesting, I'm sure, but we will have to deal with them later. Now. Although I looked, your parents had made no will – an unfortunate oversight, but not one uncommonly seen in young couples – and so there was no help from that quarter either. Are you following?"

Harry nodded, then added hesitantly, "I'm with you. I…uh…Sirius Black is my godfather, if that makes a difference. Will that help?"

Both men sent him very sharp, searching glances until the lawyer's gaze eventually turned introspective. "Sirius Black, you say. Another very complicated legal situation, but no help in this case, unfortunately. However, you are not without hope."

Harry tried to sit up alertly. "Uh huh."

"I was contemplating investigating the muggle world, to discover if your mother's parent's wills addressed any progeny their daughters might have, but it was then that the Ministry approval came through and I was able to successfully identify the legal representation of your grandfather, one Fleamont Potter. It has thus been discovered that on your father's side there is an entailment on the Potter estate."

Another pile of parchment and scrolls was placed precisely on the table. Harry stared at them curiously.

Harry scratched his head. "So, there's a Potter Manor house or something out there? Described in…" he gestured at the pile, "these?"

"Regretfully," Mr Lloyd-Elliot replied, "Potter Manor burned down prior to your parent's death. However, the estate I was referring to includes the property and assets of the Potter family held in perpetuity."

There was another awkward silence while the lawyer waited for Harry to make the connection. Mr Rowle beamed encouragingly from the side. Embarrassigly, Harry's slow, thoughtful nodding had to slowly transition into a confused shaking of the head. Harry still didn't get it, so after a stiff look, Mr Lloyd-Elliot continued.

"Practically speaking, the Potter estate has been unmanaged since your grandparent's untimely death and your parent's decision to hide under the Fidelius. Additionally, the executor of your grandparents' wills has since passed away. However, my legal team has contacted the firm that last oversaw the Potter estate and held the inactive contract and – with a little bit of legal wrangling and some expensive fees which will be part of your bill, Mr Potter – Lloyd-Elliot Associates has now recommended itself to act on behalf of the estate. Having essentially bought the contract, Mr Potter, you will be pleased to discover that it includes the instructions to follow the directions of the new Head of the House or _next heir apparent_."

"Ah!" Harry finally got it.

They got things done quite quickly after that. Harry spent a few moments having the Potter estate explained to him, before finally signing a screed of pages that showed him agreeing that he was the next heir apparent. Then he officially confirmed the appointment of the lawyer to _manage_ the estate, who could then hire the accountant on _behalf_ of the estate. This made them both his confidential advisors and was necessary for the accountant to access the money held in trust by Gringotts and waiting to be claimed.

"Goblins take what they can and don't give unless they must," the dumpy accountant explained as he gathered the will copies into his lap. "Yes, the previous owners are dead and their properties divided up, and yes, they know the money technically has passed to you, but until you bring proof of ownership and the necessary ministry seals, they won't hand a knut over."

Harry turned to watch the squib pack all the scrolls of wills into his own leather briefcase, a cheerful blue thing that rather cut through the solemnity of the occasion.

"I'll need to go through this list and work out the back taxes owing, plus the inheritance tax which needs to be paid out and give all that paperwork to the Ministry before they will release the necessary documents so that you can access the gold. We also suspect that there might be some muggle money available to you, based on the demographics of your, er, let's call them your fanbase."

 _Half-bloods, squibs and muggle-born_ , Harry interpreted. He took a silent sip of his drink; it turned out to be spring water.

"Do you have a preference as to where your money is kept?" the accountant asked as an aside. "I can have everything transferred into wizarding currency or leave things as they are?"

Harry vacillated.

"As they are then? Fair enough. I'm sure you'll have the need to buy things in both economies sooner or later," Mr Rowle admitted cheerfully. "In the meantime, I'll also square up any Gringotts fees that haven't been paid on the vaults in question, and confirm all interest owed to you is up to date. Mr Lloyd-Elliot there will manage any land or properties you may have come into, but the associated Ministry fees for those – taxes and such – will also have to come out of the bequests. I hesitate to speculate as to how much gold there will be left, after all the money owed is payed, but you should certainly end up with a few nifty nick-knacks, at the very least. Give me a few weeks, Mr Potter, and I will have you all square with the Ministry."

"Wow, thanks," Harry breathed, feeling weirdly unbalanced for more than the obvious reasons. Plus, the amount of work he had never known he hadn't done before amazed him. "This is starting to sound like it's actually doable."

Mr Rowle chuckled. "That's why you pay us the big bucks, Mr Potter."

Mr Lloyd-Elliot shot the man a mildly irritated look.

Harry took a moment to ruminate over everything they'd discussed, then hesitantly asked, "You think this will make a difference to what the Ministry thinks of me?"

He spared a vague thought towards changing the public perception of him; not being seen as a victim would be nice, but the hope was caught almost before it began.

"Excuse me?"

Harry shrugged a shoulder. "Well, like with the Potter Spotter, um, fanbase and after the fallout from the Lockhart scandal, I don't want to be _vulnerable_ …" He trailed off.

Both men nodded sympathetically.

"Not insofar as you hope," the lawyer gently broke the news.

Harry shrugged imperceptibly. He supposed he was getting used to ignoring the _Prophet's_ effects, after all this time. This was made easier by the fact that they weren't currently claiming he was mad, of course.

Then the wizard continued. "Most of the ministry employees you meet will think of you first and foremost as the Boy-Who-Lived. However, those near the top of the Administration might very well keep track of who is in arrears to the Ministry. It is generally acknowledged that the Daily Prophet reporters also stay moderately informed. The cumulative effect of these decisions will begin to add up from now on." His dry, professional tone was strangely compelling. "It will certainly not hurt to organise your assets now, in any case."

Harry agreed. Once Mr Rowle had gathered all the documentation he required, he saw himself out the door and Harry and Mr Lloyd-Elliot had a few moments to themselves. Harry took advantage of the break to order some more refreshments for the two of them.

"While I commend you on your foresight and efficiency," the lawyer murmured to Harry over the top of his gillywater glass, as they waited for their next visitor, "may I enquire as to what brought this legal action on? It seems unusually farsighted for a twelve-year-old."

"I am almost…ah…thirteen, you know," Harry replied automatically, doing some quick recalculations in his head. Then he flushed. "I mean…never mind. Combined with some advice from Dr– well, he's asked that I not mention our friendship in public."

The lawyer very obviously made no reaction to this statement. Not even his magnificent eyebrows twitched.

Harry continued. "But then I started thinking of what I could do with my knowledge, and things kind of grew." Harry swirled the dregs of his own drink in this tankard. "Believe it or not, this all started because I redid my owl wards and got given Christmas presents. D—my friend suggested I look into other things I hadn't known about, so I took his advice."

The older man quirked one of his very dramatic eyebrows in Harry's direction. "Yet you will forgive me, Mr Potter, if that seems like a similarly inexplicable behaviour for an almost-thirteen-year-old. The paperwork and research alone must have been a struggle. Was there a catalyst for this desire?"

Harry searched his mind. "Not really? I'm still spending more than I earn, so I thought I should do something with my gold before it ran out, and there's some plans I've got that are in the works. Herm– another friend of mine likes to be prepared for everything, and I'm trying to imitate her."

"Indeed," Mr Lloyd-Elliot mused, and they moved on to other legal matters for a time. Harry had just finished signing off on papers that gave Mr Lloyd-Elliot permission to investigate Sirius' trial and seek reparations for the Ministry's confiscation of the Potter memorial at Godric's Hollow, when the financial planner arrived.

* * *

Another round of increasingly tiring paperwork, and the lawyer saw himself out. Finally, Harry turned to face the financial planner, a very skinny man with thick glasses and a very methodical way of approaching business.

He introduced himself as Perseus Owen and seemed a little worried there were no legal guardians in the room to offset Harry's enthusiasm.

Harry poured out gillywater for them both to keep his mouth wetted and then leaned back in his chair and stretched out his legs. The clear, vivid taste of the liquid washed over his tongue and palate refreshingly. From within his mokeskin pouch, he fumbled out the list of notes he had made for himself earlier and took a moment of silence to rapidly reread what he'd written.

"Thanks for coming," he began. "I don't really know how this works, but I thought I'd share my thoughts and then let you do all the…organisation stuff."

Mr Owen opened his mouth, but Harry was getting sick of long meetings and just forged ahead.

"I'd like to set aside some gold for investment in some friends' business in a couple of years," Harry began, thinking fondly of the Weasley twins. "I was thinking a thousand galleons or so? Then—"

Mr Owen coughed. "I'm not sure that that is a wise decision, Mr Potter. Business owners your ag—young and inexperienced entrepreneurs often make unwise business decisions in the beginning."

Harry paused. "Is that so? Um…but I'd like to invest in them anyway. Or sponsor, is it sponsorship I want? Anyway, I want to give them the money, so please write that down for now, and then—"

"If it's new businesses you are interested in," the skinny man put down his mug and ruffled some papers in front of him, "then perhaps I can suggest a few new enterprises that have jus—"

"Nah," Harry disagreed. "This one's fine. The business has already started and the," he waved his hands, "systems, the organisational stuff is getting sorted already." His mind wandered over the chaos of the Weasley's owl orders and Hermione's suffering when she became a prefect. "I'll only get involved when they scale up production and move into a shop on the Alley."

Mr Owens raised a politely cynical eyebrow but Harry didn't give his reservations much thought.

"That's all the wizarding investments I want to make—"

"But I was informed—"

"—but then there's a number of muggle business I think will do well."

Behind the gleaming reflections of light on his glass lenses, the poor Mr Owen blinked rapidly as he absorbed Harry's instructions.

In this at least, Harry was confident. Having spent most of a significant few holidays lying in the roses trying to listen to the telly without his family noticing, Harry rejoiced that he could now use those memories for good purposes. He had felt very clever when the thought occurred to him; he could use his Pensieve to remember a few details of the financial markets well into the next three years and figured his future was pretty much set.

"Merciful Morgana, I'm afraid that investments in muggle companies are often an unwise decision, Mr Potter. Please calm down and allow me to address each issue closely."

Harry, sick of sitting down and thinking pedantically, was not wanting to deal with more legal-speak, crumpled his brows down. "Sorry," he murmured. "This is all new to me so please tell me if I'm on the wrong track." He ruffled two hands through his hair vigorously, a habit he still hadn't broken as his hair grew longer. A few irritating strands caught on his fingers and escaped his hair tie, drifting forward to lie frustratingly over his eyes.

"Of course, Mr Potter. At this stage you seem to be showing a good understand of what my job entails. I'm simply concerned at the unlikely sources of investment you appear to be considering."

"I was told you were qualified and capable of investing in both muggle and magical economies though?"

The man thinned his lips. "Well, yes, but—"

Harry waved a dismissive hand. "It's all good then. I know what I want; I just need your help getting it all together…and back into muggle currency, too."

The unfortunate Perseus Owen spent well over an hour trying to convince Harry that his chosen investments were "outrageously speculative gambles" that would crash and burn disastrously, but Harry had built up momentum. His legs felt heavy and all the complicated words were building up pressure in his head that was threatening to turn into a magnificent headache.

Harry pushed through.

He was beginning to feel a little guilty for his persistence by the time Mr Owen eventually agreed grudgingly that he was able to invest Harry's money in the companies specified. He'd been called stubborn before, Harry knew, but it had never been directed solely at one person at any one time. Harry hoped it hadn't come off as bullying.

Resignedly, Mr Owen finally began packing up, reassuring Harry that he would do his level best to get the optimum outcomes for his gold. "As speculative as I believe all this is, Mr Potter, you do seem to have an uncanny understanding of the minutiae of the trends in muggle markets, at least."

Harry hoped so. All those years of living through the future must count for something.

As the final discussion began wrapping up, Harry felt like he'd won something.

Mr Rowle seemed enamoured of him, Mr Lloyd-Elliot seemed to respect him, and even Mr Owen seemed to have developed a grudging respect for knowing his own mind, at any rate.

It was fortunate that the first two had left the meeting early, otherwise Harry's stubbornness might have undone all the positive impressions that the men had had of him.

However, when Harry left the room it was with a lightness in his step and a strong sense of freedom and release.

Harry had got his way; now he was free.

It had been an unexpectedly profitable day, and he rather thought he'd pulled his weight.

As Harry pattered quickly down the stairs to return to the bar and the Alley, he practically felt the complicated discussion and legalese drain out of his mind like water through a sieve.

He'd been playing a grade higher than his level, Harry thought, and he reckoned he'd done alright. As he swung the Alley door open and stepped through the enchanted wall, Harry took a deep breath of cool air and exhaled the stress out.

It had been refreshing to be the only child in the room again, he finally decided. At school, he was always acting the adult, and the off-balanced feeling he'd struggled with during the meeting had included that sense of the unfamiliar.

Harry turned the feeling over in his mind as he strode up the cobblestones. It wasn't bad, to not understand what was going on, but it felt very powerless. Like he was a child trying to move in an adult's world. Like he had been last timeline, so often.

Not quite the tone he had been aiming for, but he supposed new experiences were worth it in the long run. He'd fit some more research into his day, he decided between strides, and perhaps have another conversation with Draco, or Percy.

Perhaps Mr Weasley could tell him some more about the Ministry, and the Prophet. The wizarding world suddenly seemed so large and full of intricate possibilities.

Reaching his left hand up to hold onto his hood as he spun, Harry gave his wand a short twist and folded into Apparition.

With a loud crack, Harry returned to his cupboard.


	4. The Pleasant Calm Before

The next day, Harry woke with an unfamiliar – dare he call it? – hope filling him with energy that thrummed through his nerves and surprised him with a smile that somehow seemed to keep forming on his face.

It was easy to get out of bed, to Apparate into the Alley and listen to Gladys' friendly chat while he received his mail.

The wet breeze seemed cheeky as Harry appeared in Diagon Alley's Apparition point, and paused for a moment to acclimatize to the outdoor English weather. It nipped about his hood and teased his fringe as Harry turned to make his way to the post office; the rich, complex smells of the wizarding world tantalised his senses as he walked upwind and into the draft. Overhead, the familiar low-lying grey clouds seemed to scurry and scamper across with sky with enthusiasm, leaving Harry in quite the pleasant mood as he waved and nodded at a few familiar shopkeepers who now knew his figure from his regular visits.

The stale smell of owl dandruff and dust felt positively nostalgic to Harry as he stepped into the building, cheerful little bell tinkling again as the door closed behind him.

In a cheery crimson robe and with a couple of owl feathers balancing precariously on her left shoulder, Gladys bustled out from a back room to greet him.

"Good morning to you, Harry Potter! I don't suppose you're interested in some news?"

Well, he _was_ here to research the _Daily Prophet Galleon Draw…_

But that wasn't quite what she had in mind. Gladys had a young man, Harry learned as the woman leaned forward and whispered, blushing as she came to a stop behind the counter. Not quite a boyfriend, but definitely a beau, she intimated with positively rosy cheeks.

Although it wasn't precisely what he had been looking for, Harry politely raised an eyebrow and, proving beyond doubt that he was in a wonderful mood, inquired politely, "Is that so?"

"Oooh, yes," Gladys blushed. "He's a few years older than me and working through an apprenticeship at the moment, so we don't see each other much, you know?"

Harry didn't really know, having never had time to consider how the adult world worked if you weren't a teacher, shop owner or ministry employee, so he surprised himself again by encouraging her curiously.

"You don't say?"

Gladys sighed, as enthusiastically as she did everything. "Well, that's how it is, you see? But he's a lovely lad, treats me real nice and all." She took a moment of silence to reminisce, before brightening up and her busy hands started organising Harry's mail again. "We just missed each other at Hogwarts, don't you know? Turns out he was sitting his N.E.W.T.s while I was a first-year, and older Slytherins rarely have anything to do with little Hufflepuffs, you know, but he thinks he remembers me. A cheerful chatterbox, he says I was, and isn't that the sweetest?"

Harry mumbled something vague and encouraging, before scratching his head and opening his mouth carefully.

He paused. "I…hope you don't mind me asking, but…" He swallowed. "Slytherin?" To Harry's relief, the question came out curious and interested rather than the tone of demanding accusation he might have once had.

Gladys looked up quickly to catch his eye. "Ah," she cocked her head and then smiled. "I know what you mean. The Hufflepuff-Slytherin rivalry is nothing like that with Gryffindor-Slytherin, but they do have their little foibles and a certain…reputation, don't they?"

Reassuringly, she leaned forward to quickly pat Harry on the forearm twice. "Don't you worry about little old me, Harry."

He didn't think he had been, particularly, but she continued. "He's a good lad." She lowered her voice. "He knows about my parents, and he's been very understanding," she said. "He's technically half-blood himself, you know. His mother's a muggleborn."

Harry did the maths in his head quickly. "But, didn't you say that you were at school during—?"

"The bad times?" Gladys nodded, before finished up with Harry's mail, letter stacked neatly on top of the _Daily Prophet_ , and pushed the whole bundle towards Harry. "He kept his head down in Slytherin and brought no trouble to himself," she stated firmly. "Another wizard who is very grateful for your sacrifice – although he's a bit quieter about it than I am, but you know what I'm like."

She giggled, and finished up with Harry and waved him out the door.

Harry strode down the pavement rapidly, turning over the new knowledge in his mind with the optimism he'd strangely woken up with. So Slytherins were grateful to him too, Harry mused. Somehow the thought hadn't occurred to him before.

His shoulders felt, lighter, somehow? Like he was free of a burden…of some imaginary enemies, Harry quickly realised. It was quite the relief.

Alongside this new and unusual lightness, Harry felt his mind speed up. He did so enjoy when his brain made connections effortlessly like this, and with an easy segue down the path of Slytherins…

Harry wondered suddenly how many Slytherins had ended up Death Eaters, what kind of percentage actually joined Voldemort. He'd always had the impression that it was…well…It had seemed like the whole lot last time. Draco…Parkinson, Crabbe, Goyle…Zabini, maybe…There'd been that thing with Nott when he got very quiet around fifth or sixth year, so maybe not him. Um, Flint?

Harry's feet stumbled and he almost tripped. Six Slytherins suddenly didn't seem…

As his stride steadied, Harry found himself revisiting old memories with less prejudice and a little more life experience; he found himself beginning to wonder if he had somehow been rather close-minded.

How many Death Eaters had been at the graveyard in Little Hangleton, Harry suddenly wondered? At the time, it had seemed like crowds, but…perhaps he should revisit that memory and count. What a positively remarkable thought. Perhaps he'd done the Slytherins of last timeline a disservice.

Harry's forehead creased thoughtfully.

Of course, uh, political stability was probably a good thing for anyone wanting to succeed in the current system, so there would have been very in-character reasons for Slytherins to wish to maintain the status quo, he decided. Harry wondered specifically what the Death Eaters had wanted out of a new system, what their ambitions had focused on.

Chewing his lip a little, Harry wondered if it would be rude to broach the subject with Draco, even as his footsteps continued unhesitatingly onward.

As Harry reached the Apparition point, his thoughts diverged and he realised with a jolt that there must be many 'half-bloods' in Slytherin, despite how the House portrayed itself to the world.

Like, lots of them.

He realised that his eyebrows had climbed up somewhat uncomfortably, and Harry lowered them into their neutral position with mild embarrassment. It was a good thing he'd made friends with Draco this timeline, he decided, allowing Harry to have these little moments of clarity. Then he frowned for a moment – should he share this with Hermione and Ron and Neville? Would they be receptive? Did they know already? Was it obvious to, well, everyone except him?

What a good thing he'd realised!

Normally he'd be Apparating away to have breakfast about now, but Harry suddenly had the urge to walk for a bit and let these new realisations percolate.

His mind searched for a bit for a destination that would meet all his needs…

Then he disappeared from London.

* * *

It was such a lovely day and Harry was in such an agreeable, if thoughtful, mood that he made the impulsive decision to explore for a while before food. He figured he knew Hogsmeade well, after all the years of Hogsmeade weekends, but…

Well, that was only the student end of Hogsmeade, after all. There was a whole valley of it to discover.

Since there was no fixed Apparition point in Hogsmeade Village, Harry chose to make his destination the part he knew best; he appeared with a loud crack on the narrow road that curled down the hill from Hogwarts, and took a moment to shake out his joints and take off his hood.

There were likely to be very few witches or wizards around this early in the morning who would recognise him, after all, and certainly not this far up the path between the village and Hogwarts.

Looking down from the castle, Hogsmeade always seemed so small and distant, hidden as it was by the curve of the valley and the huge trees of the forest. But he knew it was bigger than it always seemed at first; it was the largest all-magical community in Britain, after all.

Harry meandered down the hill slowly, enjoying the clean, crisp air on his face and the intricate scents of mountain flowers, fresh dirt and the rich, wet smell of decaying leaves. The forest surrounded him like a lush, verdant wall; huge trees and thick undergrowth temporarily blocked his view of anything but forest, giving Harry the impression that he was alone in the world.

Within the heavy shade, Harry jumped a little as some kind of small bird erupted into flight from almost right underneath him; the bird exploded into movement as it winged its way around tree trunks and disappeared from his view. Harry chuckled at his own surprise and continued on his way.

The path was dry underneath his feet; any ruts or puddles caused by hundreds of feet in winter had healed over time, and Harry enjoyed the solid, reliable feeling he got when his feet struck the ground firmly.

It wasn't long before he walked past the train station, which stood alone and silent like a little island in the green. The playful breeze returned to tease Harry here too, darting in and around the corners of the station, making a peculiar whistling sound under one of the eaves. Then Harry was striding past the lake, which glimmered silver where the morning sun caught its mirror surface.

Harry inhaled the cool air deep into his lungs and just breathed.

As he continued and the downhill became the flat of the valley floor, the gap between the road and the Great Lake shortened, and Harry found himself stepping along the shoreline. On his right, there were reeds and the occasional gravelly patch mere metres away from his path. Then a couple of thatched-roofed houses began popping up as the forest on his left turned, ever so slowly, into cultivated land and gardens.

The Shrieking Shack would be back around there, somewhere. Off the main road, behind the village.

After a few short minutes, having felt his body relax in the solitude and anonymity of the morning, his brain still feeling that curious refreshed clarity, Harry found himself emerging from the shadows of the forest to pace past more domesticated properties, the houses on the outskirts of Hogsmeade Village. Soon, he arrived at the business end of High Street.

There was nothing in particular to look at. A few shopkeepers and residents seemed to be bustling about opening stores: doors clanked, windows rattled, cheerful but distant voices drifted across the road to his listening ears. Harry passed them with only the mildest of interested glances. He was already familiar with _Zonko's_ , _Honeyduke's_ , the Post Office, _Scrivenshafts_ , _Madam Puddifoot's_ …

A few of the more popular shops had their windows lit up and doors unlocked, but Harry didn't bother to stop and peer in. He'd been to all these shops countless times, and presumably would come countless times more.

No, what Harry wanted today was to see the Hogsmeade that catered to the residents of the place, and not just the students.

He wandered away from his usual haunts, past the High Street shops, and ambled curiously on. He thought for a moment of taking a sudden turn and heading down the side street that led into the _Hog's Head_ , but…he'd already discovered that, after all.

Slowly, the bright and busy retail area turned a little more – Harry eyed the buildings curiously – residential? He passed a third side street, and then another, down which houses of varying heights grew up like mushrooms. Most of them were made of dark, local stone with pale straw roofs, but here and there a brick extension, or wooden panelling caught his eye. They still retained that curious wizarding spirit: bright blue, window frames, ivy growing over the glass panes (sometimes on the inside), cheerfully gleaming in the morning light. Harry eyed the three or four taller buildings he could see from the main road; they often had wood on their top floor, Harry noticed, and he spent some time wondering what that meant about wizarding architecture. Perhaps Mr Weasley might know more?

Then the main road turned a corner and Harry found himself in new territory. He passed a round wooden sign that hung under a heavy eave, indicating a butchery, which surprised Harry although it shouldn't have. Of course wizards needed butchers, he blinked; where else would they buy their cuts of meat? The next-door down had an odd symbol on its shop sign, until he walked closer and made it out to be…a cheese? What did that make it? Some kind of…dairy? Cheese shop?

Somehow, Harry had forgotten that wizards…well, they had to get their groceries and consumables from somewhere, right? Even if magic could stretch food a little further than he was used to.

Neck craning inquisitively, Harry almost missed the figure holding a broomstick and apparently working as some kind of streetsweeper until he ran into her. Long grimy hair drooped and a peculiarly yellowed grin leered at him from beneath a deep hood. Harry veered away awkwardly, ignoring the cackling laugh. He swore that within the shadows and beneath the stooped back, she must be a hag, but she was also apparently…gainfully employed? Harry eyed her curiously, a little rudely, as he continued on his way. With another little jolt of surprise, he realised there seemed to be more jobs available in magical Britain than he'd known.

The sun continued to rise as he walked onwards and before Harry knew it, the road he was walking on was no longer High Street at all. Instead of bright cobblestones, the path was now darker and dirtier and yet the space seemed wider as the buildings began to back away a little from the street. He noticed with a frission of delight that deep grooves had worn down the cobblestones, speaking to the centuries of time that carriages and wagons had rumbled over them. Harry marvelled at the age of the village and wondered how he had never felt the weight of the years before. Then he noticed what he was doing, and closed his mouth with a snap.

On his left, a residential home had a flourishing front garden behind a white picket fence; a riot of purple lavenders, red poppies and yellow dragon's whiskers blazed in colourful glory. Next to it, an unpaved side road seemed to spring out of the ground like it had grown there, and Harry peered down it to see another one, two, three houses looking positively rural. Was…he squinted…was that a stable he could see? Eyebrows raised, again, Harry supposed it made sense.

The path he was following began angling up the side of the valley, Harry still genially looking out for interesting views, feet swinging easily. As he picked out a barber's shop to one side of his path, Harry realised with another embarrassed jolt that he had never really _looked_ at the wizarding world before. Hogsmeade Village was far more than a fortnightly destination for dating students. It was an actual village, Harry realised. Fully functional and unadulterated by Muggle technology, ever since the village sprung up to meet the needs of medieval wizards, a thousand years ago.

An _independent community_. Self-sufficient. Complete.

Harry's face seemed to burn; he was suddenly very pleased that Draco was not here to scoff at him.

Harry found his feet slowing down, his eyes raking the buildings more closely with attention to detail as he eyed the established gardens of the older houses. He saw the pockmarks of stone eating into the corners of the buildings where wind and rain were ever-so-slightly beginning to make their mark; he saw moss growing up the eaves, and the occasional hardy vine twining through the golden, sagging hatching on rooftops. As Harry passed the barber's shop he'd spotted from a distance, he saw perched behind it a park full of towering trees, hundreds of years old, laden with purple and green ivy and a single rope swing.

How had he never known of this?

Mouth open in awed realisation, Harry prowled on.

* * *

A hundred paces on, Harry began to think that Hogsmeade had nothing more to surprise him with. He'd passed dozens more houses in every shape and form, and passed an open market as his path began climbing the valley wall, taking him well away from the Great Lake. His stomach was beginning to beg for attention when a curious, sour smell and metallic ringing rhythm caught his attention, gusting towards him with the breeze.

Picking up the pace, Harry hurried uphill, up the distant side of Hogsmeade where he had never been. His forehead was flushed from heat now rather than the earlier embarrassment, and he scrubbed away a slight sheen of sweat with the sleeve of his robe as Harry looked up at the handful of buildings dotted up the edge of the valley.

He'd left the cobblestones ages ago, and now trekked up dirt tracks as Hogsmeade transitioned from residential housing to look more…farm-ish. A little chalet off the path seemed to be surrounded by a small horde of ducks, or chickens or geese clamouring, and in the wide-open grassland Harry caught sight of a cow or two grazing in small paddocks.

It made sense, he realised, that Hogsmeade had all types of people, but –

Harry jolted to a stop and stared as a very short witch dashed out her front door to shriek at a goat, waving a wooden spoon threateningly in one arm; he wondered briefly if she was short enough to be part goblin?

– but somehow the _complexity_ of the society surprised him.

Puffing, he paused for a moment to catch his breath and gaze back over the valley. He'd climbed faster than he thought and below him, he saw a hundred or so rooftops or all shapes and sizes that stretched outward to kiss the lake on the far end. He saw the tiny spots of busy witches and wizards bustling through the end of High Street he was most familiar with, and the occasional busyness seeped out to fill the gardens and meadows and markets below with bright and cheery life. It was, Harry mused pleasantly, exactly the kind of image you might see on a postcard of an old, highland village. As he watched the lively town, the sun found a gap between the clouds to shed more heat and light; wispy little white tendrils from the chimneys below curled up into the sky and disappeared into the great above. He inhaled the fresh mountain air and sighed.

Then Harry's stomach gurgled loudly, and he absently clutched his middle while looking around for some place that sold food. He'd left the township below him, following that curious sound until he'd wandered into what could only be described as the fringe of the village wizarding industrial area – if 'industrial' was quite the right word – right at the border of the Forbidden Forest again.

The sour smell grew more bitter and heady, and the curious rhythmic noise louder, as Harry headed up the hill towards the obvious source of the curiosity, a little copse of trees surrounding one last little huddle of buildings. Finally, he came to a huffing halt at the end of a path. A huge aspen pine towered upwards, below which a helpful sign stood.

Harry bent double, arms akimbo, catching his breath on what seemed like the very edge of the village, one mere meadow away from the encroaching Forbidden Forest that wrapped Hogsmeade. Just to the right of the tree stood a squat huddle of buildings, each business conveniently labelled by the signpost.

Harry stood in the shade beneath the ash-grey sign and peered up, hoping for something indicating food amongst his general interests: the 'tannery' was closest, a 'chandler' tucked behind it, and…Harry squinted…the building straight ahead was apparently a blacksmith's, if his uneducated guess and the fiery glow from the forge was anything to go by. He wondered vaguely what a 'chandler' made and sold…chandles? Harry shrugged, easily amused by his own guess.

Then another sign caught his eye, almost hidden in the lower branches of the ancient tree. Harry turned left to follow its indication and saw a leafy grotto. He blinked, took off his glasses to clean them, and looked again. Emerging out of the greenery was another small building, half-buried in the hillside and the heavy shade of a couple of large oak trees.

Half expecting disappointment, Harry's good mood and energy were lasting long enough that he didn't mind a few extra minutes of investigation, so he wandered over to look at the weathered sign that hung, squeaking, beneath its deeply shaded eaves.

Arriving below it, Harry squinted into the shadows to read the faded lettering.

_Alfredo's Assorted Victuals._

Harry sniffed. Beneath the smell of the tannery, it seemed good. Harry stepped onto its creaky stairs and peeped through the closest window: it was dim, but there were lights on inside and someone was moving.

He stepped up to the door to peer around and saw a single man sitting behind a counter with a book and hot cup of something.

"Knock knock?" Harry tried. "Are you…a breakfast place?"

* * *

Half an hour later, Harry sat at the window seat of _Alfredo's_ and chewed slowly while he scanned through the morning's _Prophet_ absent-mindedly. He had the remnants of a full Scottish on his left, the morning's paper open in front of him, and a half-opened stack of letters perched on the right-hand corner of page three. Whenever he finished reading an article in the paper – the Greengrasses had held a fete in their manor and raised over three thousand galleons for St. Mungo's paediatric ward, he'd just finished learning; the Galleon draw was still advertising – Harry could turn to his mail, and read something a little more personal. Something more interesting, if he was being honest with himself. News from people he actually cared about was much more engaging than the social escapades of Britain's wealthy socialites.

He leaned forward to close his teeth around the last of the black pudding and chewed quietly. He was practically alone in solitude; the man he'd seen earlier, the owner of _Antonio's_ with a particularly pleasant baritone voice and strong foreign accent, sat behind the counter reading silently. The pleasantly stuccoed walls caught what little light snuck into the heavily shaded building, allowing the verdant scenery of the Scotland highland valley to dominate his view.

More relaxed than he could remember being, Harry discovered that, somehow, he had finished his bacon and leaned forward once more to cleanse his palate with a mouthful of scone instead.

Then he used a clean knife to cut open the envelope from Neville, and sat back to catch up on his news.

Neville was well, Harry was informed. He'd succeeded in transplanting the _mimbulus mimbletonia_ that Harry had gifted him, which was apparently quite an impressive feat, and was thinking it was about time for him to separate out his Flitterbloom plants again – and did Harry want any? He'd also apparently managed to convince his grandmother to buy him gardener's boots, which were quite expensive, and Hermione had asked him to pass on that she was enjoying French Riviera and would be back by mid-August.

Harry leaned his forehead against the clean glass window as he contemplated his friends. Neville was growing up so well: speaking up to his grandmother, pursuing his actual interests rather than obeying others in silence. He'd made good friends with both Hermione and Ron, even though neither mutual friend was really comfortable with each other, _and_ he was successfully staying out of their squabbles.

Harry squinted slightly as he glanced once more at Neville's slanted scribble – apparently, Ginny was also upset with Ron, something about Mr Weasley's shed? – and huffed in amusement: it was a source of endless comfort to him that the Weasleys never seemed to change.

The large breakfast seemed to sit solidly on Harry's stomach, so he took a slow sip of strong coffee to cut through the heaviness; cupped between his hands, the slow swirl of steam bathed his vision in condensation. From his recent letters, Neville was turning into a literal font of gossip!

He felt a momentary pang, that without Hedwig's loyal support he and Hermione could not be in direct contact while she travelled but Harry's musings were interrupted by a quiet cough.

A very quiet scuffed sound surprised Harry from his musings, and he looked up to see the owner standing over him silently, an odd-looking copper coffee pot held within his hands.

"A zecond cup, zir?"

Harry startled. "Please."

He took a moment to stare as the strange contraption tilted over and dark coffee poured into his cup. Harry usually didn't drink coffee, but it was the only option available in this strange little eatery, and he supposed it did cut through the strong meal with admirable taste. Then he glanced up at the man pouring it: he was tall and slender, with very prominent bones in his cheeks, wrists and knuckles. A collarless white linen shirt hung loosely on his body, sleeves rolled up, and was partially covered by a flour-covered, creamy apron. A baker's hat sat perched jauntily on his dark head.

"You're wearing trousers!" Harry exclaimed suddenly.

"…Indeed."

Harry stared at the man who didn't look very Scottish or British at all. Then he looked at his own robes, and back again.

"Wait. Sorry. That was rude," Harry panicked. "Of course, I mean…but you're not wearing robes! I thought _all_ wizards wore robes!"

"Pantaloni?" the owner asked, impossibly poised, then smiled a closed-mouthed smirk. "Not'ing more practical dhan dhe trouser of dhe modern times." The rich, lilting voice interrupted Harry's observation, and he flushed with embarrassment, eyes jerking back to his cup.

"Oh," Harry managed. "Yes. Right. Thanks. Well." He shrugged. "I just, uh, didn't think they were an option."

Dark brown eyes flickered briefly towards Harry's forehead before meeting his gaze once more. "Not if you wish to...mmm…ztay out of zight." He shook his head. "Ah, you British wizards. I zhall never underztand zome of your…mmm, how do you zay?...quirks."

"Oh." Harry shrugged a single shoulder. Sometimes he thought the same thing. "Well the, uh, the coffee seems really nice, thanks."

"You British wizards," the man repeated, before disappearing back to his book as silently as he had come. Harry returned his attention back to the _Prophet_ – the Wizengamot had refused to pass legislation requiring children to be registered with mediwizards from birth; there were vocal arguments for both sides – and then flipped through his letters from Percy and Draco.

Then Ron wanted to know what Harry was doing for his birthday: was he coming to the Burrow again this year? Harry made a mental note to let Ron down gently, considering his other plans, and then an unusual envelope came into view.

On a heavy, expensive-looking parchment, his name was printed in precise, elegant script with a familiar green ink. He unfolded the parchment curiously.

"Ah!"

McGonagall had mailed him, pleasing Harry no end until he read what her letter had to say.

 _Dear Mr Potter_ , she had written.

_I must say that it was both a pleasure and a delight to receive your enquiry. I have been watching with pride as you have adapted to Hogwarts' academic pace and adopted your own, much improved, study habits. I commend you even more for your mature interest in developing your own learning beyond your current abilities, and congratulate you for reaching out to me._

_Perhaps you received a recommendation from Miss Granger?_

_Unfortunately, I am unable to accede to your request at this time…_ Harry's mood plummeted; he dropped the letter down on the table momentarily.

He'd had such high hopes! If only he hadn't had that odd…well, he should call it what it was…that panic attack at the end of last year.

Merlin, if only he had had it a little more _privately_!

He glanced once more at the professor's letter to find his fears confirmed. She would not loan him a time turner – she didn't own such a thing anyway.

Even worse, Harry rapidly learned, she was not even willing to recommend him to the Ministry. On _the very rarest of occasions_ , McGonagall informed him, she was able to take advantage of her years in teaching and _persuade a few professional contacts to make allowances for a curriculum-heavy timetable_ , but due to his _health and_ _recent concerns_ Harry was out of luck _._

Harry snorted.

It seemed she was concerned that his last year's successes had come at a heavy cost and she worried about his health. Harry was unimpressed: he bet she'd just prioritised Hermione for the time turner, no matter how much she tried to talk around the issue.

As Harry dropped the letter to take a final long swig of his coffee, he shrugged his shoulders. To be fair, he had been a mess at the end of last year and the professor would never have known why.

He sat in depressed silence for a moment, the beauty and freedom of the morning gone. Then he blinked, deciding to perk up immediately. There were some things it was pointless to mope over, because he could only change the things he could control. Harry had his own professional contacts anyway, that he thought he could make use of.

His mind worked: who would know? Hermione, Percy, Draco, Mr. W– … Percy first, then.

It was a morning far too cheerful to allow himself to screw up his plans. He could work around this, easy.

Rising from his seat to pay, Harry passed a few coins over to the owner of the odd little shop. He had letters to write, and things to do.

"And…do you think I can get a Cornish pasty to take away?"

The foreign man – he must be foreign, Harry knew, but he couldn't place the accent – agreed mildly, and gave Harry his food wrapped in a little cotton cloth.

"Thanks," said Harry, intrigued by this system. The _Leaky Cauldon's_ Tom just gave him his pastries or whatever in the hand. "Do I…uh, return this?"

"Is no worry," the man waved his concerns away. "Only if you pass by dhis way."

Harry took the little package carefully and stuffed it into his mokeskin pouch. "Thanks." He grinned. "I'll remember this place."

Outside the building, Harry blinked in the sudden brightness. He emerged from the dim breakfast place, stepped past the heavy eaves and out past the oak grotto and paused.

He'd have to come back, Harry decided. Hogsmeade was worth exploring more.

Then he took one last look at the hillside: streets spreading out to stretch across Hogsmeade, the cows lowing in their bright and sunny meadows, the blacksmith heavily shadowed but for the dancing light of the forge.

He returned to his cupboard with a _crack._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, folks, I struggled with this one. Let me know what you think.


	5. Coming Together

Harry had quiet days for the rest of the week, punctuated only by short trips out for food and post each day.

Percy had given him some good advice, and now Mr Weasley was writing to Harry on an on-and-off basis. It felt a little like how Harry imagined a job interview might go, if conducted via owl.

Draco was complaining about holiday homework, having apparently left it to the last minute. For the first time in his life, Harry understood – truly, viscerally understood – how Hermione must have felt around him and Ron last timeline. His instinctive confusion, as to why Draco hadn't organised himself a little earlier, warred with a smug confidence that _Harry_ had done everything he needed to. Perhaps he could give some advice. He wondered if Draco had considered a study schedule.

Harry found himself smirking; it explained _so much_ about Hermione that he'd never understood before!

His hired help-people were keeping in touch, although apparently the legalities of inheritances and trials and wills and all that were very slow going. Mr Lloyd-Elliot was very regular and professional with his updates, while the accountant more sporadic but chatty. It was all very informative and Harry found himself taking notes of their progress just so he could keep it all straight. He had sticking charms all over the one wall in his study compartment now, long lists of who needed to be contacted for what, and what Ministry responses his team were now waiting on. Hermione would have been impressed, had she but known.

And finally, _finally_ , his studies regained their lustre. It was unbelievably satisfying to be looking at textbooks which he had _never studied before_ , and Harry hadn't considered what a relief that might seem.

He positively poured over his new reference books; he'd gone out to buy the textbooks without even waiting for the Hogwarts list to come out, he was that keen. Muggle studies seemed to _fresh_ , runes looked _new and exciting_ , and arithmancy seemed _positively challenging_ after two years of revision!

Indeed, there were only two disruptions to Harry's plans, which were otherwise swanning along swimmingly.

First: the Daily Prophet Galleon Draw was drawn, and the Weasley's hadn't won anything.

Instead, Harry discovered as he poured over the paper over breakfast in Diagon Alley once again, there was a piddly little three paragraphs in tiny font that named six families as winners of the Exciting Daily Prophet Grand Galleon Draw, one of whom had won the Grand Prize. There were also instructions to contact the Daily Prophet to claim their prizes.

Harry's eyes scooted down the short list: Bacon, Newman, Hudson, Bishop, Ross, and MacGillivray. Six family names, but none of them was Weasley.

He paused. He reread the whole article, this time slowly devouring every word.

Six winners: Bacon. Newman. Hudson. Bishop. Ross. MacGillivray. In no particular order. They needed to contact the _Prophet_ editor to find out what they had won.

Feeling strangely empty, Harry crumpled his brows, licked his lips and folded the paper closed.

His eyes glanced blankly out the window, allowing a few random passersby to wander across his vision, before he returned his focus to the problem at hand.

"Hmmm." He cracked his neck thoughtfully.

Not Weasley then. So Sirius' grand escape would need alternate arrangements. Distantly, Harry felt his mind shift gears, a sudden calm descending upon him.

Plans filtered through his mind, barely slow enough for him to catch hold of them: alternative arrangements he'd thought up on the long nights he couldn't sleep.

Harry chewed his lower lip.

Idly, he wondered how quickly everything had moved last time; Sirius had to arrive at Privet Drive before the end of the holidays for Harry's plan to work, and time seemed very tight.

He finished breakfast with furrowed brows, mind racing. Then, with an unconscious shake of the head and a wriggle of the shoulders that would have embarrassed him if he'd noticed it, his brows cleared and he swallowed the last of his porridge with relaxed shoulders and a cheerful air.

He'd owl the lawyer man, Mr Lloyd-Elliot. Surely he could arrange the donation of a couple dozen – a hundred, maybe – newspapers to Azkaban in the name of charity? And perhaps – Harry's mind worked so swiftly and efficiently when he was feeling good – perhaps he could owl Colin Creevey and ask for a few photos of the young Gryffindor crowd.

The Potter Spotter column was still around, embarrassingly enough, but this time it would serve his purpose well.

Ron still carried Scabbers around most places – surely he'd be in a few photos. Harry could pick and choose what to contribute.

Or – the thought occurred, and blossomed rapidly in Harry's mind – or he could continue his anonymous association with Rita Skeeter and try to get some more coverage that way. If he could continue this agreement, he was sure an 'in' with Skeeter would become very useful one day.

All up, Harry figured he could arrange Sirius' escape without too much trouble.

Second: Aunt Marge came to visit the Dursleys.

* * *

Having arranged everything necessary for Sirius' prison break, Harry found himself suddenly bound to eavesdrop on the muggles around him. What did the papers say? What was in the news?

How soon could he reasonably expect Sirius to arrive at Privet Drive?

After a mere two days of hiding behind the roses, listening to the evening news anchors, Harry's free and easy living was interrupted.

By Marge.

And her dog, Ripper.

He was only beginning to wriggle into position, finding that soft spot in the dirt with indents in all the right places so he could listen for the telly, when he heard a noise behind him. With the sound of a scrabble of feet on concrete, Harry was startled alert from his cozy patch in the garden by a rush of low barks, and Harry spun where he lay. Ripper's solid body charged through the rosebushes powerfully, his barks starting deep in his chest and rumbling outwards. Petunia's well-pruned rose branches snapped like dry twigs in his wake.

Shocked, Harry searched desperately for his wand to keep Ripper back, well back, to keep himself safe. Inching back, he cycled his legs madly, trying in vain hope to stop the grumpy thing from latching on to an ankle.

"Still stuck with that brat, I suppose?" Marge's booming voice reached Harry from the window, and all of a sudden Harry put the clues together, realising with a pang that she must have moved in while he was studying. Then he scuttled backwards another few inches, because _priorities._

Vernon mumbled something, Harry wasn't sure what, and Marge replied again with all the self-righteous confidence of a charging bull.

Harry kept scrabbling backwards.

"I say, the quicker you can get rid of the rot the better, Vernon."

Everyday sounds from the telly continued, even as the Dursley siblings talked and Harry fended off a slathering dog.

"I always said you didn't want dodgy baggage in the house," Marge continued while Harry managed to clamber to his knees, arms frantically searching under his shirt for his wand. "You never know when the infection will spread, and I'm sure you don't want our Dudley corrupted by any sick, nancy habits…I'm sure you know what I mean."

Outside the house, Harry dragged his left shoe out of Ripper's mouth and finally dragged his wand from its pouch. Madly scrambling away on his stomach, Harry twitched his wand a few times behind him, driving the dog back with a few well-placed stinging hexes.

Tiny golden flashes dashed at the dog; it flinched on impact. Growled. Slobbered some more. Then the last two sparks hit it and Ripper whimpered just once.

With one ear out for trouble, Harry heard the sounds of couch springs protesting and knew Marge was leading forward, lumbering out of her seat. "What in the blazes…?" she began.

"Found a squirrel, you think?" Vernon's voice asked.

Grimly, Marge exclaimed. "That's not the sound of my Ripper on the hunt." Floorboards creaked from within the room even as Harry managed to scramble out of the garden and rise to his knees.

"What's going on out here then?" Above him, a shadow moved towards the window.

Harry's eyes darted: there was no return to under the window, no point trying to get low and out of sight.

Ripper took a moment to shake off the stinging and then charged at Harry again, barking menacingly.

The corner of the house, Harry decided, and he scuttled forward, almost tilting over as he dashed headlong towards shelter. Half facing the dog, half leaning towards the edge of the house, Harry nevertheless kept in mind the nosy neighbours and hoped that his wandlights weren't obvious.

"RIPPY-POO?" Marge bellowed from within the Dursley's living room. "What's going on, Rippy-poo? Where's my boy?"

There was the sound of something crashing, and Harry wondered in a distant corner of his mind if it was Petunia being surprised, by the noise or afraid of his discovery, he wasn't sure. Or maybe it was Marge crushing another glass.

"RIPPY-DARLING?! Come to Mama!"

The dog charged after Harry's heels.

Hoping he was in time to remain unseen, Harry lunged around the corner of the house and out of sight, Ripper close enough behind for him to feel his hot breath and saliva spray.

The window with Marge's shadow disappeared from his periphery.

Finally, Harry had the time and opportunity to solve his problem; out of sight from any onlookers, hidden by the house wall and the fence, he let rip a handful of well-known, familiar spells.

" _Impedimenta_! _Muffliato_!" Harry mumbled desperately, and to his relief the dog paused, silent and arrested but for the snarl forcing its way through its jaw.

"Oh. Um.. _silencio_."

Harry paused, straightened and slowly dropped his wand down to his side, letting the adrenaline flush through his system.

Of all the stupid things to be caught out by, he'd completely forgotten about muggle dogs.

He turned his head carefully to see if there were any watchers and visibly sighed in relief when all the windows he could see where empty. Nevertheless, he managed to cast the muggle-repelling charms and notice-me-not on himself in case his uncle's sister came charging around the corner in search of her darling.

He could still hear her forceful voice calling for the creature from the lounge as Harry stalked thoughtfully around the restrained but vengeful animal. He realised with a sinking feeling that the dog would hold a grudge. Harry...he didn't know if this would complicate his plans.

Finally, "Stupefy," he muttered, and released the restraining spells in order to allow Ripper to collapse to the grown in a semblance of sleep. Harry eyed it once more; the pose seemed realistic enough, but Marge wouldn't like how she'd been ignored.

He conjured up a slightly grubby rubber ducky and tucked it between Ripper's paws before turning to leave. That should satisfy her suspicions when the dog was found. Then Harry turned to leave.

Hopefully he could sneak into the house unnoticed while everyone came out to search for the animal.

* * *

Soon the Hogwarts lists arrived, telling Harry exactly what he needed to buy to prepare for the year. Some of the textbooks he'd already bought in his desperation to learn something new; they were huge, heavy things, bound in stiff leather and he anticipated building up his arm muscles if he lugged them around much this year.

Other equipment was varied. Harry was surprised by the instructions to buy an abacus for arithmancy alongside all the various supplementary texts that he had been expecting.

He found himself sitting at his study desk, spinning the beads absently while he pondered what the new school year might bring. The thought was actually exciting. He had so much planned!

Then he always returned to his studies.

It was a relief to dive back into preparation for school, but he kept his trunk lid open in case any new chaos erupted in the house that might indicate Sirius had finally found him.

Harry found himself on edge, tension in every fingertip as things went well, as time went past and all of his plans began coming together.

There was only one frustration: all the spells to keep the Dursleys away from his cupboard didn't work on the dog.

At least twice a day Harry was disturbed from his studies to overhear Marge fussing over his cupboard door, or more accurately, fussing over her dog pawing at his cupboard door which she could not see.

"That brat that you used to have," he heard one day through the cracks in his wooden door, over the rumbling growls of a vengeful canine. "He never hid anything illegal under your house or anything, did he?"

Petunia's indistinct voice dithered hesitantly, and Harry realised that with the muggle-repelling and forgetfulness spells cast on his cupboard, the Dursleys had been left to fill in the gaps on their own.

"You might want to get police dogs round," Marge's voice continued booming. "He's run off now, has he? And good riddance to bad rubbish, I say. But if he's left any traces or evidence of what he got up to, you'll want to report it yourself before he brings more trouble knocking."

Inside his trunk the sound carried well enough, and at his desk Harry was surprised to find his fists clenched tightly.

Harry flinched again later when Ripper's scratching against the door began again. After thinking about the problem, he had to climb out of his compartment to cast an imperturbable charm on the door just in case Ripper's repeated charges broke the door in and all kinds of secrets were revealed.

He couldn't think of anything else to do.

* * *

It was the Monday after Harry turned thirteen when the Daily Prophet finally reported a sudden Azkaban break-out by none other than Sirius Black. Muggle news reports followed the next morning, as Harry discovered from the breakfast conversation he eavesdropped on, from the safe side of his cupboard door. There was confirmation from numerous muggle headlines when he bought his own papers later that day.

Fortunately for Harry, the photo and interest piece featuring him and his friends had been deemed interested enough to make it into the paper quite quickly, and Harry rejoiced even as wizards and muggles the length of Britain were warned against approaching the dangerous, armed criminal.

He began the next stage of the plan, making sure to charm Ripper to sleep before he crept out of the house that night, and every night that followed.

He would have garnered a few strange looks from the neighbours over the next few days if he had not been lurking so late at night. A midnight black cloak covering him carefully, Harry huddled near the hedges, chasing after every sudden rustle and spun violently at every noise. He skulked up and down the road for an hour or two each night, twitching at every noise, jerking at every dog bark that might be Sirius before he realised he was acting ridiculous.

Even Harry himself eventually realised he was acting a bit mad, and settled down around the sheltered side of the house with a fresh plate of steaming food in a full bowl beside him.

Since it was unlikely, Harry realised, that he would be able to sneak up on a desperate, ravenous animagus, Harry would simply have to lure him with food.

One evening, he startled alert just after midnight, convinced he had seen the strange glow of eyes in the dark.

Harry jerked his arm away from his mokeskin pouch, where it had darted, lurched forward, and stared at the spot he had seen them disappear.

He gazed so fixedly into the heavy shadows and gloom that white spots began dancing before his eyes.

The wind picked up, and Harry shivered. He stuffed his pouch back beneath his shirt, gazed at the garden, and stood to sneak inside.

Unlike other evenings, when Harry brought the plate inside, he was careful to leave the food behind when he went in.

Harry was beside himself the next morning when he snuck out early to find the bowl scraped empty and gleaming. He scanned the garden as he picked it up, eyes lingering on the shadows. He saw nothing, and heard nothing unusual.

Then, stooping quickly, from out of his mokeskin pouch he promptly pulled out a large salami, and placed it in the bowl, followed by a large, plastic container of bottled water. Harry pushed the water back with his toe, edging it neatly just out of the morning sunlight and into the shade of the eaves.

He turned and went quietly inside.

From the cramped safety of his cupboard Harry then waited nervously for the rest of the household to wake.

Petunia roused first, and soon sizzling sounds and food smells emanated from the kitchen. With snuffling, slobbery bounds, soon Ripper the bulldog crashed down the stairs, and Marge opened the door to let him out for a moment.

Harry pressed his ear against his cupboard door eagerly. To his relief, the dog only stayed outside long enough to relieve itself before Marge brought it back inside. Perhaps it was the smell of sausages and bacon frying? Or the allure of Harry's smell lurking just out of reach under the steps, because Ripper was soon alternating between snuffling wetly outside Harry's cupboard, and scoffing down its generous meal.

For Harry himself, the experience was not pleasant. But he bore with it in relief, knowing that it would give Sirius more time to approach the house without Ripper on his heels.

He bided his time until Marge and her dog lumbered back upstairs for a moment, and then snuck back out into the garden to confirm the food was gone.

The plate was empty. And, to Harry's satisfaction, not only had the water gone, but the bottle had too.

His initial contact being established, and his plan successfully underway, Harry managed to focus on his studies for the rest of the day.

He returned outside with more food and water that evening, and stayed out there long enough only to confirm that this time he was certain he saw gleaming yellow eyes staring out at him from the dark. The pattern continued for a few days, until Harry judged the time ripe. That morning, Harry did not return inside, simply backing away from the bowl to some distance and sitting back on his heels.

There was a rustle of bushes that had him lurching forward in eagerness, but Harry held himself back. Sirius had not been rational when Harry first met him in the first timeline, and that had been after months of being on the run. This Sirius had only just escaped from Azkaban, and was probably far more paranoid than Harry could guess. And he really didn't want to scare Sirius off by revealing anything was wrong.

As the thought occurred, Harry hid his trembling fingertips under his arms and hoped his scent didn't reveal anything too damaging.

He looked eagerly at the hedge where the crackling of twigs was coming from. Little snaps and sounds of heavy breathing reached his ears, and ever so slowly the great black body of a huge wolfhound crept out on its haunches from beneath the shrubbery. Harry held his breath.

The huge dog took a moment to stagger to its feet, and then sniffed the air cautiously.

Harry's heart dropped when it caught his scent and froze. Was Sirius too paranoid to feed in front of Harry?

The silence stretched out at the two of them stared at each other. Harry's eyes didn't see that well in the darkness, but he could pick out the frozen stiffness and tautness of body in the outline of his godfather's body.

He opened his mouth, and the little wet pop of his lips separating caused the dog's ears to dart forward. Harry licked his lips.

"I left food for you, P–", he stopped. Calling him Padfoot would definitely scare his godfather off. "P-P…Puppy," he managed. "I won't hurt you, I promise."

The dog gave no other indication of hearing him, but his ears flickered a little bit in the night.

"Go on," Harry tried again after a few minutes, when Sirius had failed to look away or blink. "I'll…I'll just leave you to it then, shall I?"

He rose as quietly as he could and began backing slowly away from the dog, around the corner of the house. Sirius' head swivelled to follow him all the while. Moving slowly, it took Harry a few minutes to disappear around the corner, but he had not made any sudden movements or scared his godfather off so he sighed, and stretched his spine.

Hardly the delighted reunion he had hoped for, but not a failure yet, either.

He trudged inside, letting himself in the door silently, and hoped that tomorrow would bring him more luck.

Three days later, Harry had finally made some progress. He had left food and water out each evening, and each morning, and every time he checked the bowls the food and water were gone.

He tried to get closer to the dog again that night, and was allowed to crouch at a distance while the great black beast scarfed the food down. The bowl was empty and the water gone within ten minutes.

Approaching little by little each day, the emaciated black dog finally let Harry watch him while he ate on Wednesday night, and let Harry pet him gently the following weekend.

"Can I call you Snuffles?" Harry whispered, while the black dog lay – still tense – at his feet. He ran his fingers lightly over the matted hair, feeling the ridges of the skull, and the prominence of each rib. "I've got no friends in this house. And I have to hide from Aunt Marge before she says something stupid and I blow her up. It would be nice to have someone who wants me."

He tried to mix his past and future timelines. The original thirteen-year-old Harry would have wanted a dog to love him, and had hidden as best he could from Aunt Marge and her horrible dog. The present Harry Potter wanted to seem young and lonely, so that Sirius would follow him away when he left.

Harry lurched back to sit on the ground, resting his body on the side of the house. His godfather – Padfoot, Snuffles – twitched at the movement, but then crept forward to gnaw gently on one of Harry's shoes. It wasn't exactly the resounding 'yes' that Harry was hoping for, but it felt like a friendly kind of slobber. Harry took it to mean that the dog, the animagus, was slightly attached to him now.

They sat in companionable silence, Harry couldn't say for how long. He continued to gently pat the beast at his side, and slowly, when nothing else moved but the rhythmic clap of Harry's hand against Padfoot's body, the great dog huffed, and flopped down heavily to lie on top of one of Harry's feet. Its great tail began a very slow wag, thumping against Harry's side as they sat together in the dark.

He found himself nodding in sleepiness as the night deepened. It was a dry night, although it was overcast and dark, and the body of his godfather was radiating feverish heat despite being so skinny.

Harry dozed off, his hand petting the dog slowed and came to a halt, and his head nodded forward to rest on his chest. Dimly he registered Snuffles' head rise, his long, wet tongue darting out to moisten Harry's face, and it was a natural thing for Harry to giggle a little while he drowsed.

Harry thought that he actually slept for a while, despite the chill of the night, and the solid ground he sat on. He thought that he dreamed of Sirius, that his godfather had ruffled his hair and called him a good cub, but even in his dream Harry thought that such a thing would be too convenient.

He woke quite suddenly a few hours later, when the dark of the night was just beginning to pale into the pre-dawn. Padfoot's heavy head lay on his knees, and his godfather was awake and gazing up at his while he did so. Harry took a moment to recollect himself, to collect his thoughts, remembering what was now and what were his memories of the last timeline. He thought he remembered a nice dream, but Padfoot's head was right before his eyes, and Harry didn't want to seem suspicious.

"Sorry, Snuffles," he murmured, gentled pushing the dog off his lap. "I need to get going so that nobody inside sees me."

His godfather lumbered to his feet, panting at Harry in a vaguely disapproving manner.

"I'll get you more food," Harry promised, "And then see you again tonight? Stay safe, don't let anyone see you."

Shortly thereafter, Harry was safely ensconced in his cupboard, and Padfoot had disappeared for the day.

It was time to put his plan into action.

Harry disappeared from his trunk an hour or so later, popping off to Diagon Alley for breakfast before returning to his luggage to work. He did his best to study that day, distracting though his plans were, but he eventually gave up and plotted and planned his way through the next few days instead. He dashed off to Diagon Alley for supplies near noon, and then twice more later on in the day for things he had forgotten.

By the time he could admit to himself that dinner would not be unreasonably early, Harry was as ready as he thought he could be. He had also totally ruined a perfectly good piece of parchment with scribbles, scratches, and doodles. Exiting the trunk, Harry closed it, disillusioned it and dragged himself out of the stuffy cupboard.

The Dursleys were busy for the moment: Dudley ensconced in his bedroom with some new game, Vernon, his sister and her dog making a ruckus in the lounge in front of the telly. Petunia was alone in the kitchen, just beginning her preparations for their meal. Harry paused for a moment to watch her bustle about. For one brief moment as he watched her, he felt sorry for her. Was this what she had dreamed for herself when she was still only his mother's sister? Preparing piles of food for a family that took her for granted? Then she noticed his presence, and startled, her habitual scowl took over her face.

"Thanks," Harry nodded her way quietly. "I'm off."

She made a shooing gesture at him with hands, "Shoo!" Petunia whispered with a glance towards the noise coming from the lounge. "Marge hasn't noticed you're here. Be off with you." Her face was even more pinched-looking than usual, and Harry wondered if she was looking pale. "Good riddance."

"That's what I have planned," Harry continued to Petunia's bewilderment. "I just need one thing…"

"What?" she hissed.

Harry held out a pen and parchment to her. "I need someone to sign this form here. This is a permission slip for – "

"Oh, give it here," Petunia snapped, one eye still on the door into the lounge. She scribbled her signature at the bottom of the page without looking at it, and thrust it back towards Harry. "Take it and get out."

Perfectly happy to leave the family behind him, Harry took the hint and crept quietly towards the front door. Behind him, Petunia started clanking and rattling the pans with vigour.

The front door opened with a very quiet click.

Harry stepped over the threshold and heard to his dismay the heavy, rapid pattering of a heavyset canine heading his direction. He had not been quiet enough, apparently. Ripper rounded the lounge door and accelerated towards him with an evil, canine smirk.

Harry rushed through the door and spun around to grab it awkwardly. The thundering of Ripper's charge was right upon him when Harry managed to slam the front door between them.

There was a mad scrabbling as the dog tried to slow its mad charge, but Harry was satisfied to hear the deep thud of a heavy animal crashing into the solid door. Hopefully it had been headfirst.

There had been no time for the dog to avoid the crash. Harry patted himself down frantically as he heard Marge rouse herself loudly from inside the house.

Pockets, pouch, wand, luggage, he had everything.

"Ripper? Rippy-pooh?" the woman's unpleasant voice boomed out through the open windows into the early evening. "What happened here?"

Harry dashed away from the door.

"Pa– Snuffles?" he called quietly, glancing furtively around. "Here boy! Where are you boy?"

His youthful voice wavered out across the garden.

The voices behind the door seemed to rise in intensity.

Harry wondered for a panicked moment if the ruckus inside the house would follow him outside. "Come here, boy, come here!" he called once more, trying to make his voice carry, while simultaneously not drawing attention.

To his great relief, the large form of his godfather appeared in a distant corner of the garden.

"Come on," Harry beckoned. "Come with me. I'm running away."

He turned and hurried towards the end of the road, trusting his godfather to follow after him.


	6. The Great Escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some chapters just seem to write themselves. I had fun with this one.

Harry kept up his hurried pace until he and his furry shadow had left Privet Drive well behind. Then he slowed to a walk and continued more leisurely for a few more long minutes.

It was drizzling, not the kind of night Harry had imagined for his plans, but he'd left the house well enough and held out hope that everything would work out more or less as he would like it to.

He hunched his neck over to protect himself from the rain, and felt a moment of self-deprecating humour; at least it was dark enough that the speckles of rain on his glasses made no particular impact on his night vision.

Finally, having kept more or less to his predetermined route, Harry found his way to a deserted muggle park, and found himself an inconspicuous corner under the slide where he flung himself down.

The bedraggled, skinny Grim followed behind him, and when Harry threw himself to the ground it sat near his feet, panting up into his face.

Harry took a look at his godfather's bewildered face and held back a snort of amusement. The man was confounded.

Then, as the light of the nearest streetlamp caused Harry to dry his glasses, Harry's cheerful grin faded.

He took a second look at the creature that had followed behind him, and his humour turned sour. The dim and orange glow of the streetlight illuminated the dog much more clearly than Harry had previously had a chance to see. Sirius' ribs were still stark and bare on his lean flanks. The whites of the dog's eyes showed clearly, and Harry was suddenly concerned that his panting had not yet lessened.

He dug around in his mokeskin pouch once more, his preparation being superb, and pulled out some more food and water.

"Go on," he motioned with his hand. "Eat up." Padfoot paused for a moment in suspicious concern, before darting forward and grabbing the meat Harry had just thrown down. Harry watched as the dog retreated quickly, and then inhaled the meat at great speed.

Harry placed the unopened bottle of water between himself at the dog. Padfoot, his meal now consumed, gazed up sharply at Harry's face.

"Go on," Harry said again. He opened his mouth. He paused. He discarded his first choice of words. He tried again. "I am a wizard, you know."

Sirius' tail, which had begun a tentative wag, twitched and went still.

Harry very slowly drew his wand out of his pouch.

The dog's muscles tensed so hard he was quivering.

Speaking nonsense words in a gentle hum under his breath, Harry eased forwards, close to the ground, and slowly, so slowly, placed his wand next to the water bottle on the ground. He felt his heartbeat loudly in his rib cage; his chest was so tight it hurt. He was so close. He'd longed for Sirius _so much._

The silence of the night time seemed to emphasise Harry's thundering pulse until he was sure that it must pound in Sirius' ears just as it pounded in his own.

Even his own breathing seemed harsh and rapid in the night, although Padfoot's deep gasping was louder and more concerning.

Slowly, slowly, Harry eased himself backwards, until he straightened a good four feet away from where his wand and the drink bottle lay. "Go on," he said a third time. "I won't hurt you. I'd…" he wheezed in short humour. "I could never hurt you. I've been waiting."

Padfoot panted up at him.

"I've been waiting _so long._ You're my godfather. You're Sirius Black."

For one long moment they stared at each other, Harry's eyes searching Sirius' doggy face. Sirius' body hummed with tension. Neither of them moved.

Then, cautiously, Harry raised his empty hands in the air. With all the obvious deliberation he could muster, Harry then closed his eyes.

He waited.

Silence.

A car drove down a street somewhere nearby. Its tires whizzed through the surface water, and then the sound disappeared into the London night time.

The static haze of drizzle hitting the ground filled Harry's listening ears.

Everything else was very, very still.

Then, in the quiet, a rustle, a scrape and the crack of the water bottle opening. Harry opened his eyes.

A gaunt Sirius Black stood frozen before him, open water bottle halfway to his mouth, but the man had paused, watching Harry with burning eyes as they stood in deadlocked stillness. After a long moment, where neither of them moved, Harry closed his eyes again, and listened for the thirsty, gulping swallows and trickle of water to stop.

Once the rustling and gulping noises had ceased, Harry tried opening his eyes once more.

In the rapidly falling darkness, Harry could make out that Sirius had finished more than two thirds of the water. Having assuaged his immediate thirst, they went back to cautiously staring at each other. Sirius was obviously measuring Harry's reaction to his sudden transformation. Harry was measuring Sirius in return. And he was shocked.

Sirius' hair was long and matted, hanging loose around his pale, pale face. Not even the scraggly, unkempt beard could cover the pallid skin and sharp angles of his bones. His clothes – if they could be called that – hung off him in tatters, betraying the wasted hollowness of the body beneath them. He was covered in a fine sheen of sweat or oil, and his burning eyes gleamed blackly from within the corpse-like skull.

His hand still grasped the drink bottle – as a lifesaver or as a weapon, Harry wasn't quite sure. But around the bottle, dimly illuminated by the same dim orange streetlight, Harry saw long, yellowed nails. Dirt-encrusted. Sick-looking.

On hands that shook uncontrollably.

Was Sirius nervous? Of course he was, Harry dismissed. But he had never been the type to shake with nerves before…

Was it…was it simply that the effort was too…? Was Sirius very unwell, Harry urgently wondered?

Sirius' deep black eyes didn't blink as they stared at Harry from within his gaunt, haggard head. Harry shivered under their intensity.

Harry's mind worked efficiently, as it often did these days, without his conscious input. He realised, with a jolt, that his memories of meeting Sirius last time were of a healthier man. Clearly, scavenging on his own for food and shelter had been _healthier_ for the man than Ministry imprisonment.

He kept his hands firmly up in the air and spoke carefully. "I won't hurt you, I promise. Um…Do you want more food? Uh – sir?"

Sirius opened his mouth, and a grating rasp issued from his direction. He rasped and snarled a few more times before Harry realised the noises had a pattern.

"Fine...Fine. Fine, fiiine. Fine." He coughed. "Fine." Sirius knocked his fist on his bony chest. "Fine," He coughed. "Fine, for now. I'll live." There was another awkward silence. Harry opened his mouth once more, but Sirius beat him to it. "Dear gods, don't call me sir." He barked a sharp, bitter laugh. "Not a sir. Look at me. _Look_ at me! _This_!? A 'sir'!?" His voice, climbing towards hysterical, cut off and Sirius fixed him with a sharp, sudden serious gaze. "I'm no sir. I'm – you said it yourself – I'm your godfather, Harry."

Harry judged it safe to lower his hands, and did so slowly, careful not to startle the wary man. "Harry Potter," he introduced himself. "I've read about you."

"Indeed," Sirius growled out, and Harry saw the glint of madness in his eyes, "I'm all the rage right now, I am."

Harry, having judged the worst to be over, slowly reached into his mokeskin pouch – ignoring the way his godfather's body tensed again – and pulled out two cold Cornish pasties. He settled himself comfortably on the ground, and then held the second out to Sirius. "Help yourself."

Another awkward moment passed before Sirius snatched the pastry from his hand and then settled himself gracelessly on the ground, Harry's wand still sitting on the earth between them.

The tension between them settled as both devoted themselves silently to consuming the pasties. When Harry noticed Sirius was nearing the end of his, he spoke out.

"So, like I said," Harry broke the silence casually, ignoring Sirius' sudden twitch, the urge to flee, "I'm running away. What are your plans?"

"I've got a traitor to kill," Sirius' eyes flashed. The insanity in his wolfish grin sent shivers down Harry's spine, but he responded with the calmness of the nineteen-year-old war veteran he was.

"Pettigrew, then." Harry nodded calmly. He found himself slipping into his peculiar Occlumency trance where panic and emotion could not disturb him. "Could you leave him to me?"

Sirius crushed his pasty in shock, and he gaped at the thirteen-year-old in front of him. "You…" he stuttered, "You…you think you're hard enough? You want to dirty your hands? His death is mine," his shocked voice turned to a low purr. "Eleven and a half years I've suffered for this crime. I've been dreaming about the day I'll finally commit it."

Harry's still, calm mind worked rapidly.

"Oh, I see," he added conversationally. "So what's your plan, then?"

Sirius spoke low and fast. "I'll sneak into Hogwarts. I'll wait until I have my chance. I'll surprise him with my…You could bring him to me!" The man's eyes lit up. "You, with your friend, the red-head kid. You could steal him from your friend, and bring him to me, and…" Sirius snapped his teeth together wolfishly, "It'll be over before he knows it. What's a little murder between old friends?"

"Well," said Harry cautiously, "that's certainly the beginnings of a plan. You're planning to give him a quick, clean death then?"

Sirius' body thrummed with tension, and he snarled deep in his throat at Harry's words.

Harry chose his next sentence carefully. "Look, I think our interests could work together here. How about we take a few days to plan things out?"

Sirius twitched, but Harry continued. "Hang out together for a week or so? Get to know each other better?" He shrugged. "You could tell me about my dad?"

"I…what?" The convict before him settled back once more, a gruesome grimace flickering across his face in what Harry realised was a smile. "James, eh? The things I could tell you…"

Sirius suddenly whipped around, glancing towards the entrance to a park. A solitary figure jogged silently by, and Sirius morphed silently back into his dog form. His ears cocked forward, the great Grim sat silently as the evening runner disappeared. When Sirius finally relaxed, Harry took it as his cue to move.

He rummaged around inside his mokeskin pouch, and pulled out with great satisfaction a silvery, shimmering fabric. Even on the dog, he could see his godfather's stunned expression.

Harry smirked. "My dad's cloak. Come on, sit still so I can put this on –" he was reaching and pulling around the great beast before his brain remembered how edgy his godfather was, but Sirius remained motionless. "There," Harry pulled the hood up over Sirius' ears. "That's safer. Now, do you have a safe place we can go for now? Or should I take us both to the Leaky Cauldon?"

The rumble that issued from beneath the Invisibility Cloak answered his query. "That's what I thought. So where are we going?" Harry saw a flash of fur and skin as the Cloak before him shifted with movement and Sirius' disembodied voice came from beneath the cloak. "I do have…" the man began, "my mother's old place."

Harry made encouraging noises.

"It's a horrible, dark, depressing hovel," Sirius expanded. "It'll drive us both mad, if it's not already too late for me." He laughed a raucous, desperate kind of laugh, then sobered a little too suddenly for comfort. "But no one else will have wanted to use it instead, so at least it'll be empty. I once swore I would never go back, so it's the last place anyone would look for me."

"Where is it?" Harry enquired, knowing perfectly well where Sirius was describing.

"12 Grimmauld Place, Islington."

"Transform again," Harry instructed, and he gathered his things and led the invisible Sirius out of the park.

* * *

He stuck out his wand hand imperiously, jumping back as the rumbling, roaring purple triple-decker Knight Bus appeared out of thin air.

"Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard!" the conductor chirped cheerfully. "Just stick out your wand hand, step on board and we can take you anywhere you want to go. My name is Stan Shunpike and I will be your conductor for this evening."

Harry nervously patted his fringe down over his scar, and made a show of hunting down precisely eleven sickles to pay for his ticket.

His careful fumbling gave his invisible companion plenty of time to sneak on to the bus behind him.

Reassuringly, Harry felt the fever-warm body that had been pressed against his leg straighten, his leg cooling down rapidly as Sirius' body-weight disappeared and presumably his godfather was getting on alright.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry kept an eye out for…for the wet pawprints that mysteriously appeared on the floorboards while he handed over the money to Stan, for one thing. Fortunately, as the Invisible Cloak glided after Sirius' form, it blurred the marks into something much less recognisable before anyone noticed.

Then, having finally found the change, Harry looked up at the young and earnest face of Stan.

Stan met his gaze with an open look.

"You're alrigh' then!" he confirmed cheerfully, counting Harry's coins. "You sure abou' no 'ot chocolate? S'only an extra two?"

"I'm fine thanks," Harry replied, suppressing a small shiver. "I don't think I have the skills." He thought morbidly back to his first ever Knight Bus experience, and the sopping, sticky mess the hot chocolate had turned his pillow into.

He gestured to a bed halfway down the aisle. "Can I have this one?"

"Oh, alrigh'," Stan waved him away. Harry realised with a stab of thankfulness that he might get away without the million-and-one questions this time.

He started shuffling down towards the bed carefully, trying to avoid stepping on the invisible dog.

He was almost there when, "Take 'er away, Ern," Stan chirped out, and the Knight Bus leapt forward with a bang, and the mother of all jolts.

Harry tumbled forward, his floundering knee made contact with something heavy and warm and he realised with a grimace he had just pounded his sickly godfather in the ribs. The two staggered forward together with a skittering clatter, until Harry's hands managed to brace his fall against the brass footboard of the bed.

There was a muffled yelp from around his thighs. Under his thighs, Harry winced. Somehow Harry had failed to catch himself in time, and Sirius had been squashed again. He realised with sudden guilt that him falling on Sirius was all that had stopped him falling on his knees. His arms reached out to find leverage.

Just as Harry thought he had regained his balance, regaining a steady stance that was vaguely upright, his invisible trunk – floating behind him – crashed into the back of his hips.

"Gah!" said Harry. His knees buckled once more.

Sirius yelped again.

Harry bit back a curse.

He glanced around quickly at the front of the bus, where Stan had sat down next to the driver. Fortunately, the men seemed not to have heard. He quickly scanned the other brass bedsteads. The bus seemed relatively empty, and the only other occupied bed contained a very unwell witch, who was clutching a porcelain bowl and her wand in her hands. The greenish tinge to her skin, and her single-minded focus on the bowl clutched tightly to her chest, told Harry she would not be paying him much attention anytime soon.

The bus continued to careen and sway forward, causing Harry to tighten his grip on the bedhead until his knuckles whitened, his legs planted firmly apart for better steadiness.

The scrabble on the floor between his feet drew his attention down, and Harry saw to his horror that Sirius' tail was now poking out from underneath the Cloak.

"Hssst!" he whispered desperately. "Hold still." He struggled for a moment with the bundle still pinned beneath them. Sirius' legs were working desperately to get his feet underneath his body again – he must be stuck on his back or side, Harry thought – and the scrabbling sound of his claws against the floor sounded loud to Harry's ears. Harry desperately wrestled with him for a moment. "Hold still! The Cloak! Don't – ah."

After another urgent glance around the bus, he changed tactics. Harry scrambled onto the bed. When he turned back, he saw the dog's body crouched firmly on the floor, claws out and clinging desperately to stop the sliding. The Cloak remained on, but – Harry noticed with a hysterical giggle – only Sirius' head was still invisible. A very low rumbling growl reached his ears. It was only a matter of time before someone looked around.

"Change back," he whispered forcefully. "Jump up, and pull the Cloak back on!"

He scuttled back on the bed to make room for the man.

The dog made a desperate leap in Harry's direction, melting mid-flight into his human form. Sirius landed firmly on the end of Harry's bed, on all fours, and then his arms flew back to grab the Cloak and hold it down by his hips.

"Fool boy," he snarled out. Harry's blood ran immediately cold. Sirius' voice growled low and threatening. "Are you trying to kill me?"

His sour breath brushed past Harry's face, and Harry remembered once more that Sirius was still a mostly-insane prison escapee. He clasped both hands desperately across mouth, trying with moderate success to stifle his inappropriate giggles. He shook where he sat for a long moment, Sirius invisibly half-sprawled across one of Harry's legs. The situation was tense. His very life might still be in danger from the unbalanced man. Sirius' life was definitely in danger if he got noticed. Yet every time the bus took a sharp corner or jumped up on a curb, the Knight Bus beds screeched and shuddered their way across the floor, and Sirius' weight on his legs rolled and lunged around on the bed to the accompaniment of some heartfelt groans.

When the bus screeched to a halt some indeterminate minutes later to let a staggering gentleman off, the weight against his leg pitched forward with unusual sharpness.

"Ugh," came a muffled voice from strangely close to Harry's left elbow. Harry did not need to see Sirius' body to know that the man had just face-planted violently into the mattress, and – with his arms presumably still holding the cloak down by his hips, maybe even pinned by his body weight – now he was stuck.

The ridiculousness of it all struck him and Harry worked hard to keep a straight face.

Just as Harry could feel Sirius raising himself up on his arms, the bus started again with a lurch and Sirius went down again. Harry pinched his lips more firmly together and redoubled his efforts to cease giggling.

Sirius snorted softly, his voice sounding like it was still jammed hard into the mattress, and Harry imagined the familiar half-grin on his godfather's face. "Fool boy," the man grumbled, with what might have been real humour in his voice. "You're just like your father."

Finally, the bus evened out onto a straight-way, and Sirius could rearrange himself.

Their ride continued late into the night, and although Harry could not honestly say that they became _comfortable_ , he and his godfather did manage to settle down into a mutually agreeable state of latent wariness.

Each time the bus stopped to pick up or let off a passenger, the two tensed, and sighed in relief when their ride leapt forward and no one glanced in their direction a second time.


	7. Sanctuary

Harry and Sirius reached their stop in London a short time after midnight. With the beginnings of a stomach cramp from holding in his laughter, and trembling muscles from keeping alert due to a mad prison escapee, it was not a graceful exit from the bus. Harry leapt to his feet as soon as the Knight Bus screeched to halt and tottered his way past Ernie and Stan with all the grace of a new-born foal. He felt Sirius, or Padfoot, rather, nudging him along from behind.

Quite keen to escape the lurching monstrosity, Harry and his invisible companion scrambled out the door into the night with barely a backwards glance.

Once out in the cool, damp air of London at night, Harry turned and waved goodbye to Stan and the driver until the Knight Bus disappeared with a loud crack. There was no need in letting any witnesses see where he was travelling.

The quiet stillness of the wee hours of the London morning settled into Harry's ears slowly.

After the rattling and rumbling of the last few hours, the London suburbs' mundane midnight traffic seemed distant and peaceful. Harry felt a bit of the tension drain out of him; the mad escape had worked, after all, and his plan was continuing apace.

The silence was broken by Sirius' gravelly voice in uncontrollable giggles coming from somewhere near his ankles.

"What in bloody buggering hell are we doing, James? McGonagall would have us in detention from now until Christmas if she'd caught us, you bastard!" As best as Harry could work out, the invisible man had collapsed to the ground in hysterics. "Lily would kill me if I took you on that monstrosity again – despite being her favourite, you know. Lily would kill you too if you risked my lovely, perfectly shaped a– " His voice cut out. Sirius sobered suddenly with sudden grim hopelessness and his deadened voice spoke darkly. "You're dead, James. You're all dead. I killed you."

There was a sudden scrabble in the silence, and Harry was made viscerally aware of the inherent dangers of covering a mad, murderous prison-escapee with an Invisibility Cloak.

"…Sirius?" he asked, in the suddenly still night. There was a pause when Harry didn't think he was going to get a response; Harry found his wand-hand reaching for the pouch about his neck.

Then he heard a noise. Harry tensed, paused, let his hand drop back to his side.

To his horror, Harry realised that down by his ankles, Sirius was sniffling. Then he felt something tug on the hem of his trouser leg.

"I'm sorry James," Harry heard, "I'm so sorry. I can't do it James. You've gone, and Lily's gone, and Remus hates me, and the bloody rat bastard set me up. I don't want to go on James. It's so hard…"

"Sirius," said Harry, panicking. "Sirius, it'll be ok. Mum and Dad forgive you. Remus'll come 'round. You're doing well so far, right?"

"Harry," croaked Sirius in a cracked and broken voice, and Harry's chest clenched tight. To his relief the hood to the Cloak slipped off, and Harry could see where Sirius was huddled. "Harry, I'm so sorry Pup. I let you down. I tried, Harry, I tried to be strong but I messed it all up. I can't help you any more kid. I'm all emptied out." Sirius' voice cracked, leaving an empty gaping hole to fill the space where his voice should be. "Empty. There's nothing left."

In the distant glimmer of a nearby street lamp, Harry was dismayed to see a solitary teardrop work its way down Sirius' grimy cheek and into his beard.

Harry squeezed his fists tight.

"Sirius," he said desperately, "Sirius. You broke out of Azkaban for this, right? No one ever managed that before, you know? Dad would be so proud, don't you think?"

"James," Sirius groaned. "I broke my promise. I told you I'd look after your kid." He sudden desperation he reached up towards the stooping Harry and grabbed Harry's head strongly with both hands. They were cold, far too cold for comfort, and Harry felt Sirius' long nails lightly scrape the sensitive skin of his face.

Harry flinched in the face of Sirius' unblinking stare.

"I'm sorry James, I'm sorry kid, I…" Sirius broke off, glancing around Harry as if he was confused. "James? Harry? Are you…?"

Harry desperately wanted to try a Cheering Charm or give Sirius a Calming Potion, but…were they safe for…unbalanced people? Could he even use magic on Sirius right now? Were there tracking spells or whatever on prisoners? Harry had no clue.

He swallowed noisily.

"Sirius," he eventually tried, after a moment of thought. "Sirius, it's okay. You're doing well." He squatted down and grasped awkwardly for his godfather's shoulders underneath the Invisibility Cloak. "James is proud of you. You're here, aren't you? Get your mind back in the game, Padfoot. Harry's relying on you. Smarten up, you can relax and recoup soon. You with me?"

"Back in the game?" Sirius seemed lost, eyes depressingly unfocused. "Head on straight. Get my head on straight. Gotta get back in the game. That's right, Harry's relying on me. I made a promise. I…Harry?"

Harry breathed a long sigh of relief and the tension in his shoulders relaxed as the lost forlorn look in Sirius' eyes sharpened into focus. "That's right. We've left my uncle and aunt's place. We're going to yours. We just got off the Knight Bus. Are you with me?...Sirius?"

Sirius stared at Harry intently again, making him wonder if his godfather was retreating back into his confusion. But then Sirius spoke in an ordinary, if gravelly, kind of voice, surprising Harry with its unexpected normality. "Look, Pup – can I call you Pup? This was a stupid idea."

Harry was somewhat indignant. "What do you…? You mean the Bus? I know it wasn't pleasant, but it was all I could come up with at the time!"

"That too," Sirius agreed fervently. "Damn thing almost killed me, I'm sure. What James would have said if I arrived in the afterlife having been defeated by some purple people-muncher, I don't…" Sirius trailed off. "The house. It won't work."

"Eh?" Harry glanced around. "You think they're following us?"

"They'll be watching it."

Harry blinked, and thought about it. He had been working on the understanding that it was under the Fidelius Charm, but perhaps…

"Ah," he mumbled, intelligently. Presumably the muggle-repellent charms were in existence, but as Harry's mind made a few extra connections he realised: for Dumbledore to be the Secret Keeper in the previous timeline, the Fidelius Charm must have been a recent addition.

He cursed. No Fidelius on the house would make things difficult. And it was supposed to have been the perfect plan! What else of vital importance had he forgotten to take into account?

"Aurors?" he queried.

"Mm," Sirius confirmed. "They can't get in, or the house would kill them – Dark family, the Blacks," he explained in an aside. "My father put every security measure known to wizardkind on it when he lived here. It's Unplottable, so Muggles could never come and call — as if they'd ever have wanted to — so it would've been safe for us, but they'll surely be watching the doors and windows."

Harry pondering the problem for a few minutes. In the face of his stillness, Sirius's disembodied head started pacing, muttering something about _stupid ideas ruining everything._ Harry felt a stab of frustration.

"I didn't think the Ministry was competent?" Harry finally asked.

Sirius released a hacking, hoarse bark of laugher. "They're not, but is it really something you're willing to…" he began again. "It's not something I'm willing to risk my soul for. They'll have..." he trailed away more darkly, finally muttering in a low tone, "They'll have instructions to Kiss me on sight."

"Ah." Harry paused. While Aurors were a real risk, running into Dementors was definitely not in his plan. "But if we get into the house we'd be okay?"

Sirius grimaced. "House elf."

"What?" Harry carefully kept his face blank.

"Nasty thing. Loved my dear ol' Mum. Still does, if it's alive. If I sneak in looking like I'm trying to keep things quiet that _loyal house-elf_ of mine will probably make a huge racket and bring half the Ministry running before I can say 'be silent'." He spat the words with such bitterness that Harry worried as to the stability of his plans. But no, he had to get into Grimmauld Place tonight, so Sirius could start to heal there in safety. Sirius continued, "He can't outright betray me, or he'd die, but he'll do his level best to undermine me."

Harry chose his words carefully. "I have…a bit of a way with house-elves." Sirius raised his eyebrows. "If I had one night with this house elf –"

"Demon."

"Demon?"

"Bloody evil little bugger – can't remember its name – evil incarnate, I kid you not."

Harry nodded for a moment, as if he was processing what Sirius was saying. "Well, if you give me a few hours with this house-elf of yours, then I think I could fix that."

Sirius stopped his mostly-invisible pacing, and turned to face Harry. The weight of his silent stare was somewhat undermined by the fact that he was _still_ only visible from the neck up. "You're an odd child," he muttered. "Very odd." He paused, then huffed quietly. "Well, you're the kid with the plan. How do we get inside without the watchers hearing a fuss?"

The plan bloomed triumphantly in Harry's mind.

"So we would be safe in the house, but have to silence your elf first. Are you being tracked by any…" Harry fluttered his fingers in the dark. "Any magical charms?"

"Dunno," sighed Sirius, sounding like he was moving from curiosity back to hopelessness. "They wouldn't tell me that now, would they?"

"Well," tried Harry, "I can do a little bit of magic since the Trace is not on me or my wand, but if we're not sure what's on you it's probably not worth trying. I could go first and come back for you? Would a little bit of distance help?"

"Strange child," Sirius repeated. "Best not. If there is something on me, there's no telling what the Ministry might pick up. Besides, you're not leaving me until you've got me the rat."

"Huh," said Harry, temporarily derailed. "But what we need is a chance to tell your elf not to draw attention without anyone noticing, right?"

"Hmm."

"So we can sneak in unnoticed." Harry smiled, and pulled out his mokeskin pouch from underneath his shirt. He dug inside it for a moment, before triumphantly brandished his set of keys, and turned to the gently bobbing, invisible luggage that had been following him all the while. Sirius watched in silence as Harry dropped it down the ground and brought it back to visibility.

Then Harry too dropped down onto the ground and fiddled a bit with the trunk. After a few clinks, and Harry's quiet mutterings about lacking light, he turned from his open luggage to reveal to Sirius the entrance to his bedroom compartment.

"Ta-da!" he revealed. "Part of why I bought it is that it stops ambient magic leakage. Hop in, and call your demon house-elf to come here!"

There was a moment of stunned silence, before Harry heard the guttural sound of Sirius croaking laughter, and he saw a gaunt hand pressed briefly against the edge of the trunk, and a flash of cloth as Sirius climbed into the compartment.

"Stay out here and keep watch," Sirius' voice drifted out of the trunk, before his hand snapped up and drew the lid down.

Harry settled down to lean against the closest brick wall, his chest warmed by his momentary triumph.

Harry gazed around the neighbourhood. They were perhaps half an hour's walk away from Grimmauld Place, but the suburban road they were on was still peaceful and calm. The overlooking windows were all dark, and no cars had passed in the ten minutes they had stood here talking.

Harry got comfy on the wall.

It took three minutes for Sirius to pop his head back out of the trunk and lean on the edge of the rim in despair, invisibility cloak somehow misplaced. His voice had lost all the meagre energy he had shown minutes ago, and sounded cold and dead in the quite night. "I can't call him, James. I've forgotten everything. It's all hopeless."

Harry looked at the gaunt, exhausted man in front of him and felt his own wash of exhaustion. The weight of failure loomed heavily over him. But this was Harry's plan, and he'd lived through a year on the run after all. He drew on his reserves of patience.

Harry crouched down in front of his godfather and smiled encouragingly.

"You've got this, Sirius. I know you can do it. Just a little bit more work and we can let you rest up. What's happened now?"

"I can't remember his name, Prongs. I can't call a house-elf without a name."

Despite feeling significantly worried about the state of Sirius' mind, Harry almost smiled in relief. "That, I can help you with." He stopped to work on his phrasing. No need to give too much away, after all. "Now tell me, what did your dear ol' mum used to say when she wanted to serve her guests tea?"

Sirius blinked up at Harry in confusion, "'Do you take it black?'"

"…" said Harry, nodding encouragingly. "Good? And then did she call for your house-elf? What kind of name would a little creature like that…"

"Kreacher!" Sirius jerked upright, and to Harry's dismay, there was a loud snap in the air behind him and the low muttering of a very familiar voice. He spun around with a curse and grabbed the house-elf with both hands. His seeker reflexes thus serving him well, Harry lifted the little elf up above his head, and toppled all three of them over and into the compartment.

There was a mad scramble and a good deal of shouting before Harry found himself on his feet again, temporarily deaf in one ear and with a developing bruise over his right eye.

The lid was still open, so Harry waved his wand quickly to muffle the space – the Ministry tracking charms on Sirius, if there were any, would be confused by the wizarding space they were inside, so his charms could work here just fine. Having done so, Harry turned back to his companions. Kreacher had disappeared after stomping all over Harry's face, and when Sirius had immediately recalled him, had returned to the luggage compartment with a snarl. Now the two worked hard, shrieking insults at each other at the top of their lungs.

" – nasty, wicked little master with bricks for his brain – " Harry heard Kreacher shout, until the elf was overwhelmed by Sirius roaring back,

" – evil little gremlin, I wish you had drowned yourself in your own pi– "

" – If my poor old mistress had seen what a waste of space – "

" – should have died with my dear ol' mum and long may you both burn in – "

" – glad you were rotting in prison – "

Harry pointed his wand again, and called loudly, " _Petrificus Totalus_!"

The furious house-elf snapped to attention and slowly tilted backwards, while Sirius roared with laughter. "Serves you right you vicious little blighter – "

But then Sirius cut off in surprise when Harry conjured a pile of soft pillows for the elf to land on. "James! What are you doing? I thought we were going to kill the little bugger?"

"Er…no?"

Harry and Sirius stared at each other for a moment before Sirius' mind lost focus and Harry remembered how functional his godfather currently was.

Harry began to feel like this year was going to be more complicated than he had planned for. "Sirius," he began gently, "remember we had a plan? How about you just tell Kreacher than he needs to obey me like I'm his new master, and then you can go and have a nice rest for a bit. How does that sound?"

Sirius blinked. "Harry? Is that you Harry? What happened to the…oh, there he is. Kreacher, this is Harry. He's my godson. Obey him like you would obey m– , _not like me_. Obey Harry like he is your other master. Nod if you understand… _I said_ NOD!" Sirius bellowed.

Harry rapidly unpetrified the house-elf, who promptly began nodding his head, spitting out some particularly vicious insults while he did so.

Sirius turned to Harry, "Pup, meet Kreacher, a miserable excuse of a house-elf, but he's all we've got."

"Thanks Sirius, I think he's got the message," Harry spoke calmly. "Now how about you change back for a bit while Kreacher and I have a little chat."

"Don't worry James," Sirius beamed, a wide, broad smile blooming on his face. "He'll do what he's told now. Kreacher."

Harry heard some rather uncomplimentary comments drift up into the night air. Sirius drew in a deep breath, and Harry spoke quickly to cut him off. To Sirius' complete bafflement, Harry muttered out some brief instructions, then added, "Now, go back home in silence and wait in the kitchen for us. We'll see you there soon."

"…ungrateful degenerates…criminal… would my dear Mistress say…?" Kreacher scowled and muttered, before disappearing in front of their eyes with a particularly loud _crack_.

Sirius swore.

"Told you about that, didn't I? Did anyone hear?"

Harry shrugged, and climbed up the steps to step out of the bedroom compartment after rifling around in one of the corners of the compartment. "No idea. I've been in here with you for the most part."

"Were you really?" Sirius seemed astonished, but reached up to grab Harry's arm to be helped out of the trunk.

Harry continued. "No one's around, but we'll look a bit weird sitting here alone in the middle of the night, we should get going."

Sirius replaced the Invisibility Cloak around his shoulders and came to stand behind Harry. "So what's the plan now?"

Harry revealed what he had grabbed from the corner of the room.

"Did you know I'm pretty good on a broomstick?"

Sirius laughed again.

* * *

Harry and his godfather swept silently through the dark London night, swooping around chimneys and over rooftops. Sirius sat silently behind Harry on the broomstick, holding on to his waist with a casual grip.

Unlike his passenger, Harry himself was not under the Invisibility Cloak, so he was careful to keep to the shadows and out of the pools of light that gathered around the street lights. So close to their destination, so many problems already overcome, the two figures were as close to relaxed as they had been for hours.

Besides, they were flying.

In that same relaxed mood he always found when in the air, Harry smiled to himself as the night air ruffled his hair and he leaned into a steep corner. Gravity and speed pulled at his robes and body with the same familiar grip they always did, and he resisted the lure with a casual ease. He'd sunk into his Occlumency trance again, that inner pool of stillness where he was all calm and calculating. So it was not that he was _happy_ , or _excited_ , exactly. But he was relaxed and enjoying the peaceful sense of _rightness_. Behind him, he felt the tension melt off his godfather similarly.

Just the homestretch to go.

They slowed as the broomstick neared the entrance to Grimmauld Place, and skated directly over the rooftops, shoes sometimes mere inches from roof peaks and chimneys. While Sirius breathed close to Harry's ear, Harry himself leaned forward, hoping it was obvious, hoping he could spot Grimmauld Place emerging from the dark just like the Leaky Cauldron did when he was close enough.

Distant muggle gardens, three or four floors down, were wreathed in shadows as Harry's eyes strained to spot something different. Something that didn't fit the pattern. He didn't quite know what he was looking for.

Then Harry's seeker eyes quickly picked out an extra rooftop and garden emerging from the anti-muggle wards that the House of Black had put up. He slowed the broomstick and hovered two households away, looking for Ministry watchers from well above the rooftops.

"What do you see?" he whispered, and felt Sirius lean forward to gaze over his shoulder.

They hovered, still in the air, for a long moment.

"I don't believe it," Sirius husky voice murmured after some time. "There's only one."

Harry stared out into the darkness. "Where? I don't see them."

Sirius snorted quietly, sounding for one moment surprisingly like Severus Snape.

Harry shivered as he felt a large hand gently grasp the back of his head, and forced himself to relax as all it did was angle his gaze towards the front steps of the opposite property. "There," Sirius whispered. "In the shadow of the steps. He isn't even disillusioned."

Harry's sharp eyes easily picked the figure out of the darkness, now that he was looking in the right place. A figure dressed in a dark-coloured cloak was leaning heavily against the brickwork in the shadows. It looked very motionless.

"Is he…asleep?" Harry wondered.

"Almost," Sirius replied. "Some young idiot, I suppose. He wouldn't have made it through the last war with skills like that."

"Shall we try the front door?" Harry enquired.

"No," Sirius ruffled Harry's hair. "You had the right of it before. We'll get in through the second-floor window, assuming Kreacher has opened it like you instructed. How did you know about that?"

Harry said nothing, leaning forward instead to gently guide the broomstick around the back of the townhouse, where a bedroom window should be standing open just awaiting their arrival.

Behind him, Sirius just shook his head quietly, and sat back.

* * *

Harry and Sirius gently drifted down the back end of the house and stopped by the dark window that was cracked barely open.

They hovered there in silence for a moment. Harry sighed a little. "I see what you mean," he offered, and Sirius rolled his eyes. Kreacher had done exactly what Harry said, and cracked the window open enough for the two to sneak in, but not a quarter-inch more. The gap was maybe six-inches wide.

"Shall we try opening it more?" asked Harry.

Sirius shook his head. "Who knows what noise it might make. We'll make this work."

Harry drifted the broomstick closer. "You first," and after a brief whispered discussion, Sirius agreed.

"Headfirst, do you think?" Harry asked.

"Into that dark hellhole? Not on your life," Sirius whispered sharply back. "It'll be feet first so I can run away if need be, or not at all."

Upon reflection, Harry agreed with the assessment and the broom slowly hovered a little higher and then a little higher again.

As Harry controlled the broomstick directly above the window, Sirius slipped his feet onto one side of the handle. Grasping the broom handle, and Harry's shoulders tightly, he slowly transferred his weight onto the windowsill, and turned. Carefully, cautiously, as Sirius felt the steadiness of Harry's broom control, he used the broomstick to take his weight as he slid his feet through the gap. Then, with some surprise, Sirius felt Harry manoeuvre the broomstick closer to the gap so that Sirius was levered through the window without having to do a thing. Harry was almost level with the windowsill when Sirius felt his feet hit the floor, and released the broom handle to pull himself inside.

His figure disappeared for a minute, whirling to take stock of the room.

Harry paused, waiting; was it safe?

Then Sirius' pale hands came back through the little gap, graspingly. Sirius quickly unhooked the Invisibility Cloak from where it had caught on the window frame and dragged it inside.

Relieved of his passenger, Harry pulled his handle up, and flew a tight loop away from the window and before coming back. He aimed straight at the gap, his full body lying flat against the wood of his broomstick handle, his feet held tight next to the bristles. Sirius, seeing what he intended, stood back from the window as Harry coasted silently and smoothly through the tiny space. There was a quietest of rustles as the bristles slid over the wooden window frame, and then Harry was inside, and they were safe.

"Thank goodness we're both skinny, huh?" Harry asked with a cheeky grin, and Sirius had to laugh as the outrageous plan worked to perfection.

* * *

Safely inside, Harry and Sirius glanced around the dark bedroom they had entered, illuminated only by the dimmest of moonlit glows.

There was a strong smell of mustiness and dust and mould. The carpet was deceptively soft and thick, but Harry had to stifle a cough as they threw up clouds of dust with every step they took. Turning to look back once as they left the little bedroom, Harry saw that they had left clear footprints in the layer of dust on the floor. Something crackled under him as he walked, and Harry hoped there weren't too many bodies of spiders, or doxies or whatever, sunk into the sheeting of grey as they died.

They walked carefully down the next corridor and eased themselves through the house in the dark. Even Sirius was strangely silent; perhaps his memories of the place were jarring with its current state, or perhaps it was just that unpleasant to come back.

Grimmauld Place was in dire straits. Even in the dark, the grey coating of dust and cobwebs everywhere were perfectly visible. Harry and Sirius were careful to avoid the strangely clean spots by a number of wardrobes and cabinets and cupboards. They assumed, quite correctly, that any number of Dark Creatures had moved into the dark little spaces.

Any number of pictures remained on the walls where they had presumably lived for years. Some of them slept softly, others snored or wheezed and Harry wondered with a sudden, morbid curiosity: when was it that they had last woken?

He followed Sirius downstairs that should have creaked, but instead they paced on in eerie silence.

Harry was glad he had come here in the company of his godfather; this was not what he had expected at all.

Eventually, after measured steps and faltering footsteps, Harry and Sirius found themselves on the ground floor, where Kreacher obviously lived. While not clean by any stretch of the imagination, there was less dust, and tracks on the floor where the house-elf obviously walked.

Harry breathed out a sigh of relief.

Standing in the sitting room, Sirius wrinkled his nose and muttered bad things about house-elves. Harry eyed him thoughtfully.

"There's not much we can do in the dark," he offered, as Sirius' inaudible tirade wound itself down. "Do you want to sleep in the trunk for tonight?"

A dark head swivelled his way.

It was the work of a few moments, but Harry soon had Sirius persuaded to follow him in the trunk where they could continue their talk.

Once the luggage was closed firmly, and they were safely ensconced inside it, Harry turned back to his godfather.

"It's a bit rude," he began, "but if you want to sleep on the bed tonight, do you mind if I clean you up a bit?"

Still sounded slightly unhinged or off-balance from the trek through the house, Sirius barked his laughter again. Harry carefully withdrew his wand from the pouch around his neck, and explained how he could cast undetected spells from within it. Sirius, after a moment of silent contemplation, threw his hands up in the air and let Harry have it his way.

Apparently, the whole evening had been so far beyond what the escaped convict had expected that he was willing to roll with whatever Harry suggested. That was exactly to Harry's advantage.

A few cleaning spells later, and another Cornish pastry and water bottle down, Sirius was finally agreeing to settle down in Harry's bed for the night.

Harry argued him down out of his final objection.

"But Kreacher could do anything to the luggage while we're asleep."

Harry smiled. "I'll go out and talk to him now. I promise nothing, but I think by tomorrow we should have a different house-elf."

"I'll believe it when I see it," Sirius grumbled, but let Harry climb out of the trunk without moving to stop him.

Harry turned to close the trunk, and smiled reassuringly at the solitary, gaunt figure of his godfather as he gently closed the lid.

"You'll be safe in here," he promised. "I've got your back. Nothing will get past me, so sleep easy and relax."


	8. Remaking an Ally

The lid of Harry's trunk creaked open in the dark, and the silhouette – vaguely Harry-shaped – emerged from the space.

In the quiet darkness, his eyes flickered over the room. Sirius was safe in the compartment, but where was Kreacher? What about all the other…infestations that might cause him harm?

Harry dared not tread too heavily as he moved.

Not willing to use his wandlight in case the ministry watcher saw movement through the windows, Harry slowly paced his way towards the kitchen where he hoped to find something familiar. Light, for one. Perhaps warmth, even?

Now alone in the house without Sirius, the looming dark shadows and softly billowing spiderwebs seemed a little more threatening in the deep darkness and obscure gloom.

Once-magnificent furniture, now decrepit and degraded, seemed to loom over Harry. He felt very small as he paced past them alone. The house seemed unnaturally quiet, still. His own breath and heartbeat were loud in his ears, and Harry kept twitching as he heard – thought he heard – the small skitterings of spiders, and the rustle of claws and chattering of mouths from dark corners.

Or perhaps he was simply imagining the noises.

He probably was, Harry told himself firmly. He'd better get a move on.

Harry stepped out towards the hallway and continued towards where his memories said that the kitchen must be.

It felt a bit odd, to feel so threatened by a house in which he had spent so much time. Harry felt adrenaline tingle in his fingers, felt his mind switch over into the smooth, calm efficiency he'd learned to access when under stress.

It was just like the old times when he and Hermione were running from the Snatchers, or the three friends sneaking around Hogwarts with Snape and Filch on their trail.

But, Harry remembered, even as his shoulders untensed and his steps became steady and firm out of habit, this time he was risking Sirius' soul. There were bigger things at stake than just himself.

And he was, of course, alone on this journey.

Harry felt a pang in his chest, clutched it tightly, but then forced himself to move on.

Perhaps there would be some kind of comfort in the kitchen, where he'd spent so many hours, the part of the house he knew best.

Harry's hopes backfired somewhat when Harry arrived in the basement kitchen to find it dark, dingy and beyond grimy. His cautious optimism of earlier led to the greatest disappointment he had experienced that evening.

The floorboards were so dark with dirt they looked black, and as Harry took his fist few steps into the basement, he felt…he lifted one foot carefully…the floor was _sticky_ and it _squelched_ slightly every time he raised his foot.

"Ugh."

The room itself was not as cold as Harry had half worried it would be, so that was something, but as his eyes travelled the room curiously, Harry found the shadows dark and heavy. The room had a musty kind of smell; it was full of the scent of soot and something else – unwashed house-elf, he idly realised before immediately wishing he hadn't; Cupboards and stovetops and pans menaced him darkly from the depths of the room.

The image of Molly Weasley bustling about in it was difficult to imagine, but Kreacher was there, lurking in the darkness looking like a predatory demon.

Yellow eyes glowed in the dark.

Harry's heart leapt for a moment, until he realised who the eyes belonged to.

"Kreacher!" he managed. "Um…hi."

Cautiously stepping forward, keeping an eye on the very unhappy house-elf who was warily watching him approach, Harry slowed his steps and tried not to let his disgust of the place show on his face.

"Sorry to intrude," Harry mumbled, forcing a cheerful air into his quiet voice. "Shall we sit and talk?"

Harry looked towards the kitchen table, before: "Or…maybe not…quite…here."

He decided against the table and chairs decisively, instead lowering himself down on the dirty floor – at least it wasn't infested, like the table and chairs might be – and attempted to cross his legs comfortably.

Harry settled himself onto the floor and took a moment to shift his weight. Something stuck; his clothes unglued from the floor with a _schluk_ , and Harry very carefully stopped moving along the ground. The less he noticed about the place, the better.

Instead, he dug into his mokeskin pouch for two cold pies and held them both out to Kreacher.

"Choose a pie and eat it," he offered optimistically. "And then I want to talk to you."

He sat there calmly as Kreacher recoiled, and muttered insults for a number of minutes.

Harry licked his lips uncertainly.

"Uh…which ever one you don't choose, I'll eat the other one," he offered.

No response except muffled mutters that Harry couldn't quite catch.

"Or we could have half each?"

Still just a distant shadow in the dark, Kreacher's small body jolted forward and back a moment, two instincts wrestling, before his apparent hunger drove the small house-elf towards Harry.

"…Dirty half-blood," Harry's ears caught, and, "Evil schemes…poor Kreacher…"

He endured the onslaught of insults calmly until finally he appeared to have proven his temporary harmlessness; Kreacher dashed forward out of the dark to snatch one of the pies out of Harry's hand and grudgingly nibbled it doubtfully.

Harry casually munched on the remaining pie himself while Kreacher eyed him suspiciously from a few feet away, and began the conversation nonchalantly.

"So tell me about the House of Black."

Kreacher positively hissed at him.

"Alright, alright," Harry held his hands up in patient tolerance. "You finish eating first. I don't want to take advantage, and I won't hurt you; I won't treat you like…well." He sighed. "Like Sirius does, I promise." He took a glance from under half-closed eyelids to watch as Kreacher's tentative nibbles at the pie turn feral. "I just want to hear about your magnificent family history."

Kreacher paused, glared.

His mouth half full of his next bite of pie, Harry caught the glare and paused. He swallowed noisily. "What? Everyone's heard of the Ancient and Noble House of Black, but I've never been told the _real_ story." He shrugged. "I mean, I thought you'd be the best one to ask."

Predictably, Kreacher, still scowling and furious at having to obey the horrible young half-blood and traitor, began with telling Harry how he was unworthy to breathe the same air as the pureblood Mistress and his young master Regulus, but his grumbles and complaints gradually moved towards describing the majesty and grandeur of the family he served.

At one point, "Oh excuse me, just let me do something to keep the noise down," Harry interrupted, and by this stage Kreacher had relaxed enough in his presence not to disappear when Harry drew his wand. Instead he simply eyed Harry with a dark, suspicious look that didn't really ease when Harry muttered, " _Muffliato._ " He didn't know any spells that actually stopped noise from travelling without silencing the speaker, so it was the best he could do. "Sorry to interrupt Kreacher. Go on," Harry encouraged, and Kreacher returned to the topic of conversation in surly confusion but rising fluency.

"Go on," Harry murmured appreciatively at appropriate moments. "Really? Is that so?"

He felt a bit pretentious, faking enthusiasm for the house elf, but it would all be worth it when a little trust was gained.

Working his way to the point carefully, Harry directed the conversation towards this Regulus, and listened with a pang as Kreacher became enthusiastic in describing the virtues of the young man.

It took a couple of hours and Harry became more and more uncomfortable sitting on the solid, sticky kitchen floor. He tried leaning left for a while, and then tilted right just to adjust the pressure on his poor, aching bottom, but his clothes were stuck firmly to whatever grime had accumulated over the years; Harry couldn't actually shuffle around.

He smiled, nodded, and gasped in the appropriate places in Kreacher's stories, and eventually his bottom passed through feeling painful and cold to turn numb. Harry still sat, quiet and appreciative in the dark, and Kreacher grew in confidence and passion, gesticulating wildly as his story came around to the time when the magnificent and charming Young Master Regulus was born. The extended family was jealous of his radiance, and the Black family apparently grew in wealth and success as the good young master grew.

Eventually Harry reached the point in the conversation he'd been hoping to get to.

"Tell me how exactly you failed Regulus?" Harry commanded. Kreacher lunged to his feet with a wail.

"Stop!" Harry commanded. There was a scrabble as Kreacher leapt for the oven and Harry lunged to his own feet; he disengaged from the floor with a squelching pop and reached out to grab Kreacher just before the house-elf could grasp the nearby poker thrash himself around the head with it.

The house-elf cries grew louder and louder as Harry dragged him away from the poker by an ankle.

"Don't shout loudly! Don't hurt yourself for telling me this! Sit down and tell me the facts!" Harry snapped out. "Never beat yourself with a poker again. I want to _help_ you."

Kreacher curled up into a pathetically miserable ball and keened a high, eerie note.

Despite the fumes of unwashed house-elf and grime and very, very old laundry that made Harry's eyes water, Harry relaxed his grip in pity at Kreacher's state. Skinnier than Dobby would be, at least one rotting sore on Kreacher's leg caught Harry's eyes now that they were close, and the almost physical misery radiating off the small elf made Harry feel like he was being a bully.

"Shhhhh," Harry tried urgently, guilt stuck in his throat like a rock. "Shush, Kreacher, shhhhhh….it's okay."

Kreacher rocked himself in misery for a few more moments, Harry looking on weakly, before with an explosive and powerful force, the house-elf made a second attempt to cross the kitchen to reach the poker.

"Stop!" Harry called. "Don't punish yourself! Don't move, Kreacher!" His tiny body froze midair, and the wizened house-elf dropped to the ground like a stone before lying in abject misery on the dirty kitchen floor, his ears drooping, and a small fountain of tears gushed from his watery eyes. His skinny little arms shook with the strength he was clenching his fists with.

"Kreacher," he gasped, "failed the young master. Kreacher left him to die! Kreacher was ordered to! But Kreacher…" he let out another heart-wrenching wail, but his voice now seemed weak and pathetic. "Kreacher has failed in his task. Kreacher cannot destroy the locket!"

Despite everything, Harry allowed himself a tight, triumphant smile.

"So let me help."

Kreacher twitched around, incidentally away from the poker, which Harry was glad of, and looked Harry in the face. "The locket cannot be destroyed."

Harry smiled, his eyebrows creasing in worry as he injected all the hope and helpfulness into the words as he could. "At least let me try."

Kreacher, after an incredulous silence, pulled himself up into sitting ball-shape and peered at Harry through milky eyes. "The dirty half-blood Potter would fulfil Master Regulus' last wish?"

"I can try."

The small creature whimpered and shook and rocked and whispered to himself there on the kitchen floor for what seemed like a long time. Harry watched silently at the tortured old elf before him. He was trying to be gentle, he remembered Kreacher's potential future, and all the unnecessary pain, but his heart twisted at what the years of pain and failure and secrets had done to the small being before him. But he could not be too gentle yet.

"Stand up, Kreacher," Harry finally commanded, as kindly as he could, "and follow me." And Kreacher stood up and clumsily wiped away his tears with his knuckles, and tottered after Harry as he stood up and turned.

Harry silently sent a few cleaning spells towards the back of his clothes while they walked.

At the door out of the kitchen, Harry stood aside and let Kreacher take the lead, and he led Harry straight up the stairs to a certain drawer, from which he delicately collected an old, gold locket on a chain.

Harry's eyes grew large and greedy as he saw another one of his goals so close within reach. He blinked the look away before Kreacher could notice, and held his breath.

Carefully, almost reverently, Kreacher picked up the chain with his right hand, holding the locket proper to dangle briefly before his eyes. Desperately searching eyes sought Harry's gaze as Kreacher slowly lowered the jewellery towards his other hand. His mouth, his whole face grimaced, switching through a number of emotions that Harry couldn't recognise before they both heard the locket gently settle with little clinks into Kreacher's cupped palm.

His hands curled protectively around the locket, Kreacher raised his eyes up and slowly held his hands out towards Harry.

Harry could read the pain in his eyes, and felt very old as he tried to smile comfortingly at the elf. "Hold onto it for now."

"I'll need a few things," Harry murmured. Kreacher followed him towards Harry's trunk.

* * *

Carefully, Harry opened the compartment that held the dead Horcruxes and climbed inside, leaving Sirius sleeping safely in the other compartment. He returned a minute later with his dragon-hide gloves and a dagger-sized Basilisk fang. Then they walked back in silence to the kitchen.

"Er," Harry said, seeing the elderly elf standing hunched and pathetic before him. "I was going to do it myself." Milky blue eyes gazed at him unblinking. "But would you prefer to do it? To honour your Master Regulus?"

Kreacher's ears dropped further and his eyes welled, "But Kreacher _cannot._ "

Harry smiled. "Kreacher, can you make it so that no one can hear any noise that comes from this room? We can't afford to be discovered here."

Kreacher snapped his fingers, and a spark leaped up and illuminated the room for a moment. Then he muttered, "Kreacher has done it."

Harry thought. "And can you cover your ears somehow so that you cannot hear anything for one minute?" At the look on Kreacher's face – was he about to do something irreversible? – Harry hastened to add, "You must get your hearing back in two minutes or less." To Harry's amazement, Kreacher reached up and grabbed the tips of his ears, before curling them over and stuffing them in his earholes.

"Er…Can you hear me?" Harry tried, and apparently it had worked, because Kreacher continued fussing with his ears – making them stay that way – without meeting Harry's eyes.

Harry held back a curse as he realised that now Kreacher could not hear his instructions. That was, well, that was typical of his plans, Harry had to admit.

Raking his hand through his hair in frustration, Harry waited until he had Kreacher's attention and then pointed at the locket, then the floor. Almost unwillingly, Kreacher slowly, slowly bent and rested it on the floor.

At which point Harry had to pause, because he didn't want the house-elf to die of Basilisk venom, but he also couldn't pass over the protective gloves without mortally offending him, or losing Kreacher's trust forever. Possibly both.

"Damn."

Harry didn't think he was actually at risk of accidentally freeing Kreacher, but he _had_ just been told to obey Harry as if he was a master. Harry hurried conjured a piece of fabric and wrapped it around the broken-off end of the Basilisk fang.

Then Harry carefully handed the fang to the elf, who grasped it with long, knobbly fingers and a very firm grip.

Harry held up one finger: "Wait _"_ , and then drew a breath to hiss in Parseltongue, " _Open_."

The illusory figures of Madame Black and a young and handsome Regulus billowed out from the smoke that drew out of the locket. Harry watched Kreacher's face carefully as they began berating him. Horrible words, cruel words came tumbling from their lips. Their faces were cold, harsh, beautiful. They called Kreacher a failure, telling him to punish himself, telling him he deserved clothes.

Kreacher's eyes grew large at the sight, and Harry's heart beat suddenly for one moment. Would he stop? Listen? Harry hadn't told him about the locket's protections – but perhaps the small elf had some kind of magical wisdom, because he did not seem enthralled.

A hissing gurgle came through the darkness, and Harry realised with a jolt that Kreacher was growling at the locket with hatred. The illusory figures were only one moment of distraction before the elderly creature dropped his eyes to the open locket, grasped the fang in both hands, and leaped onto the locket with a manic yell.

"Aaaaiiiiiieeeee!" the small thing shrieked. "For Master Regulus!" Kreacher stabbed the fang down into the open locket so hard his feet left the floor.

There was an unearthly shrieking, a hiss of smoke and sulphur filled the room, and the vision disappeared, leaving only a molten locket looking empty on the floor. Kreacher stood gasping, staring at his hands and the locket for a long moment, before releasing the fang, dropping to his knees and bawling.

Harry stood at the centre of a storm of sound. Kreacher's keening wail resounded around the room, making the windows shake slightly. Dust dropped from the ceiling. Something skittered inside one of the kitchen cupboards and a few shadows seemed to shuffle in his peripheral vision. Harry very carefully didn't look around the room too hard. He was also hugely relieved to think of the house-elf magic that would keep outsiders from hearing the din. His _muffliato_ would not have coped with the sound. The noise level continued for a full minute, until Kreacher's hearing came back and he returned to his senses with a shudder.

His sobs slowly descended into whimpers and snuffles as Harry stood by uncomfortably. All he could do was open and close his fists silently while Kreacher worked through the years of frustration. Harry's eyes drifted around the dim room. He waited for the sobs to abate.

"Kreacher is a good elf," the little figure finally gasped out. "Kreacher is obeying. Oh, my poor young master!" He returned to his mourning wails with a little gasp, and Harry stood by awkwardly and let it happen.

It was a long time, a very long time indeed by Harry's reckoning, that Kreacher stopped his wails and turned to face him.

"Kreacher is doing it. Kreacher is killing the bad locket."

"Good job," nodded Harry. "You did well. Regulus would be proud of you." He remembered what he and Hermione had done last time, and wondered aloud. "I don't think the locket counts as clothes, Kreacher. Would you like to keep it for me?"

The little house-elf made a horrific grimace that Harry suddenly realised was what passed for a wide smile. With a sudden movement, Kreacher darted forward to grab his young master Regulus' locket, and scampered off out of the room. Harry assumed he was going to his…nest…place, where he slept.

Harry waited in the kitchen for Kreacher to return, but long minutes passed and Harry realised that perhaps Kreacher was not intending to come back. He could call him back, of course, but if the elf was asleep, or needed an hour or so to recover from the emotional night, then it was probably best to give him space.

Scratching the back of his neck, Harry stood, and returned to the sitting room where he cracked open the lid and climbed into the trunk to sleep.

Sirius had the bed, but there was no reason Harry could not conjure a mattress to sleep on himself. It would be safer than risking the goodness-knows-what-creatures that might be living in the couches and beds of the townhouse.

It was the work of a few minutes, and Harry climbed onto the mattress with a sigh.

It had been a long day. A much longer day than he had expected. He closed his eyes.


	9. Battle on the Home Front

Harry woke up the next morning with a literal thud, when his conjured mattress disappeared from underneath him. Jerking awake, he glanced up at the figure of his godfather. Sirius was sleeping with the stillness of the dead, and Harry would have been concerned except for the fact that he could hear Sirius wheeze from where he sat.

A few minutes later, he emerged into the early morning light of the sitting room, where he stopped and stared with amazement.

They had arrived last night in the pitch-black darkness, and Harry had thought he had seen then how dirty and decrepit the house was. But now in the daylight, the truth of the matter astounded him. The heavy layer of dust on almost everything, and the faded wallpaper hanging in derelict strips from the wall, were expected. But from the dark wooden curtain poles hung, not only curtains, but great swathes of spiderwebs, huge silver-grey drapes as heavy as velvet. There was an irregular clanking noise coming from inside the fireplace, implying that a Dark Creature or two had probably moved in at some point and found it comfortable. Catching his eye, something small and burrowing had moved into the fabric of the settee on his left, and Harry averted his eyes hurriedly. That was a problem that he was more than happy to consider after he had eaten breakfast.

Hoping Sirius kept sleeping, Harry wandered on down to the kitchen, to see an industrious-looking Kreacher pottering around the room with a twiggy looking broom. It all seemed good to Harry for a moment, and then he noticed that the fireplace was going, and he almost had a heart attack.

"Kreacher," gasped Harry as he stumbled into the room. "The fire. The Ministry's got watchers on the house and they'll see the smoke. Put it out, put it out."

Kreacher jerked upright from his task, then dashed halfway over to the fireplace. He stopped in the middle of the room, making little jerky movements to and away from the grate, before finally croaking.

"Kreacher is cooking his food, as he always does. Does the half-blood Potter dislike it?"

Harry clutched the doorframe in relief. "Oh, that's fine then. Sorry, I was just…hang on, let me catch my breath." He waited for a minute for his racing heartbeat to slow. "Sorry. I just thought…I'm trying to hide Sirius from the Ministry, so I don't want them to know we're here at all. I…what are you cooking?"

Kreacher muttered something low under his breath, but waved one hand in the direction of the pot that Harry now noticed hanging over the fire. Taking it as an invitation, Harry crept over to peer inside. It looked like a lot of simmering water and…twigs?

"What are these?" Harry wondered aloud. "Where did you get them from?"

"These is roots," Kreacher revealed proudly. "From the garden. Kreacher is spending many months before he is knowing which roots is good to eat."

"I didn't know the back garden had anything edible in it," exclaimed Harry, scratching his head. Mrs Weasley had never let anyone go out to the back garden when he was here before.

"It has roots," replied Kreacher, and after a moment of incomprehension, Harry had a realisation.

"You mean, it only has edible roots? You're eating, like, bark?" he asked horrified. "They're not edible plants out there?"

Kreacher nodded his head wisely in Harry's direction. "They is big plants out there, that is trying to eat Kreacher first, now." He explained to Harry's dismay. "The herby plants is dying many years ago, and the eating trees was only making food in Autumn for a while. They is getting knocked over by the others many years ago too. Kreacher is on his third tunnel now, to get to his roots. The biggest plant is now taking over his first two."

Harry felt part horrified that the elf had been staving off starvation by eating old plant roots, and part impressed that he had managed to feed himself at all. He wondered what kind of carnivorous plants were out there. It sounded like devil's snare, but surely the garden would get the afternoon sun. Venomous Tentaculars were fine with sunlight, Harry dimly recalled. And…Snargaluffs? How big did they grow? Bizarrely enough, Harry realised once again that he hadn't been revising well enough yet. He'd not had much focus on Herbology, and now that was seeming like a mistake.

He shuffled awkwardly in the kitchen before making up his mind.

"Alright, I'll pop off to Diagon Alley and buy us some breakfast. I'll get some for you too, if you want. Hopefully Sirius will keep sleeping, but if he wakes, you can tell him I think he should be Padfoot for the day. You're welcome to keep cleaning," – more than welcome, in fact, " – but please don't do anything that the Ministry watcher outside might notice. I'm hoping they'll give up in a bit and decide Sirius won't come here. Do…" Here Harry faltered, since he had never actually asked what kind of work house-elves usually did. "Do house-elves do grocery shopping? Is this the kind of thing I should be entrusting to you?"

"Kreacher is being a good house-elf," the grumpy old elf growled out. "Kreacher is not leaving the house, he is not."

Harry backpedalled. "Of course, of course. Sorry. My mistake, I didn't know. Kreacher is…I mean, you can stay at home and clean then, please, while I run some errands."

Half an hour later, Harry was back, a good supply of grocery items in an expanded pouch.

" _Scourgify,_ " Harry incantated, and set about unloading the groceries on the newly clean kitchen table. "I went to the market in Hogsmeade. I got us some flour, and sugar. We have cheese and butter, and milk and eggs should do us for today and tomorrow, as well as a whole lot of root vegetables that should keep for a while so we don't draw attention with too much shopping. There was a little stall I'd never really noticed before that sells preserves, and I have some pickled…pickles and things, over here in jars. There's some good pork belly for tonight, and a little old lady I spoke to assured me that in this jar," he brandished a glass jar tied off with cheesecloth triumphantly, "is some very good homemade yeast. She said my house elf would know what to do with it?"

Kreacher dropped his broom where he was standing, and set about investigating Harry's purchases. He had that scrunched up grimace on his face again, so Harry assumed he was pleased. He listened with bemusement to Kreacher's under-the-breath muttering: apparently helping destroy Regulus' locket hadn't stopped the house-elf thinking out loud, and it was clear that the long-isolated little guy was very confused about Harry. Harry held out the pouch to Kreacher, who grabbed it with haste and rapidly pulled out more and more purchases from within; the cabbage, a basketful of pea pods, watercress, and a leafy green thing that Harry didn't know the name of but liked how it looked, all piled up on the table. He wasn't surprised to hear Kreacher's words.

"…Is Kreacher trusting?…but, Kreacher is knowing… Ah! Bird-meat!...but first Kreacher must… strange half-blood Potter…so instead Kreacher will…Ah! But Kreacher has failed…"

Harry leaned over and grabbed the poker again before Kreacher could grab it and punish himself with it.

"Bad Kreacher! Bad Kreacher!" the little elf wailed, and Harry was a little too slow to stop him from slamming his hands in the oven door.

Leaping forward, Harry managed, "Stop! Stop Kreacher! Don't punish yourself!" before he could grab the oven door handle and force it to a halt. "Please. Don't punish yourself until you have my permission, and I won't be having that conversation with you until the house is liveable. Alright?"

"But Kreacher – "

"If you have time to punish yourself, you have time to be cleaning," Harry insisted firmly. "We need you to be healthy and happy to do a good job." He couldn't help but feel that if Hermione was here she would be muttering about fair working conditions and appropriate appreciation for services, but Harry didn't think Kreacher was quite ready for that yet. Harry continued, "And on that note, I also brought back some hot food that we can eat for breakfast. Do you want the steak and kidney pie, liver and onion, or the chicken and leek one? Sirius and I will eat the other two."

"Kreacher is not – "

Harry interrupted. He was much more confident and forceful when needed in this timeline. He had so much riding on his plans. "Good work needs good food. If you don't have a preference, then you can have this one," he pushed the steak and kidney pie in Kreacher's direction, "Since Sirius could probably do with the liver. Take it slow – since it's hot – and enjoy it. I'll buy us some more for tomorrow but I don't want to you choke and you probably haven't had any meat for a good long while. After we've eaten, I'll help you clean out that pantry and we can put all the food away next. Is that a nest of doxies I'm seeing in the oven?"

The house-elf subsided in confusion, fingering the hot pie wonderingly. Harry wandered off for a few minutes to check on Sirius – still asleep – and returned licking his own fingers and dusting the last of the pastry from his lips.

"Alright," he said convincingly, rolling his shoulders. "The pantry first, don't you think?"

* * *

Harry hitched up his sleeves and brandished his wand confidently. After all the past few weeks sitting and waiting for his plans to start moving in frustrated impatience, it felt better than he could say to be active and doing things. Progress! It was finally happening.

"Right," he said, turning to Kreacher. "First things first, we need to get the food sorted safely. Have you been in the cupboards recently?"

Kreacher's shoulders did a sullen kind of shrug-roll-spasm. "Kreacher is not…Kreacher is not remembering when exactly."

Harry's eyebrows rose. "Well, from the sounds of things – " There were a few suspicious noises coming from a number of cupboard doors, not to mention to oven, "– a few animals of some sort have moved in over the years."

"Kreacher is hoping they is being good to eat," the house-elf muttered. "But then nasty creatures is fighting dirty. Kreacher is not beating them."

"I…how did that work out?"

"Kreacher is once catching one to eat, but then others is catching Kreacher. Kreacher is having to let his nasty biting food go."

Wisely keeping his comments to himself, Harry turned to the pantry. Behind him, Kreacher was twisting his grimy pillowcase between his hands, so Harry reached out alone.

With an uncanny screech of rusty hinges, the pantry door swung open.

Harry crouched. His head ducked defensively behind his left forearm; his wand-hand rose up to banish whatever it was that was about to leap out at him.

Nothing did.

After a moment of surprise and awkwardness, Harry straightened up.

" _Lumos,_ " he murmured, and at that exact moment, a swarm of blue erupted from one of the upper shelves and went for his head with shrill screams.

" _Immobulus_. _Flipendo_. _Immobulus_ , _immobulus, flipendo_."

The Freezing Charm worked great on pixies, but only hit one or two at a time. The Knockback Jinx, on the other hand, could banish the horde back a foot or two, giving Harry some time to recover. Harry kept up his charms, but soon found himself starting to run out of breath. He had faced pixies before of course, but not a whole nest, not alone. And, Harry thought, shaking his head violently to dislodge one that had made it into his hair, apparently he had never faced _angry_ pixies before, just mischievous ones. They moved fast, and Harry dodged and spelled and dodged and spelled, fighting against the onslaught.

"Kreacher," he called, hoping for backup.

A pixie found its way to Harry's shoelace and tugged mightily. Harry stumbled as his shoe came loose, banishing ten or so pixies on his right back two feet while he did so.

There was a crash as something behind Harry fell to the floor and shattered. Harry felt a surprisingly strong tug on this same show that sent him reeling back two paces - _they'd stolen his shoe!_ Harry realised with shock. They'd taken his shoe right off his foot!

Kreacher gave a hoarse screech from wherever he was: "The good china! Not the good china!"

"Kreacher!" Harry called again, and ducked as something began to swing his way from the ceiling.

Looking up, Harry had no time to curse as he realised a handful of enterprising pixies had successfully sabotaged the ceiling hooks, and one side of the great, heavy framework holding the huge cooking pots of the Black kitchen began to drop with heart-stopping, ponderous slowness.

It must have weighed a ton just from the frame itself, but the huge stacks of old cookware: pots, cauldrons, meat spits and pans would have doubled, no - tripled its weight. Harry felt the shadow of death itself pass over him as the huge, ancient pot rack fell ponderously, glacially slow and unstoppable.

There was an almighty crash as the wooden frame, previously attached to the ceiling, detached from one of its hooks, cast iron frying pans and pewter cauldrons dislodging from their places with a tumultuous clatter. A heavy rain of crockery and cookware crashed into the kitchen floor. A cascade of dust and angry insects added to the chaos. A couple of spiders dashed across the dusty floor faster than Harry could say, " _Petrificus totalus,"_ and then disappeared into new corners to hide in.

Harry blinked once and took in the room at a glance.

Some cookware had landed on the table that held the groceries and dislodged them; more things rolled and trundled awkwardly from the table and onto the floor. Harry watched in bemusement as a cabbage bounced half-heartedly his way, a blue pixie somehow trapped half-inside one of the leaves.

Shrill screams from injured pixies set Harry's head ringing, although that might also have been the glancing blow he had received on the forehead from a heavy saucepan lid.

Nobody really moved in the aftermath of the disaster, heavy lids popped off their saucepans and bounced, cauldrons rolled across the floor and the falling cookware crashed and clashed and changed directions without any predictable rhyme or reason.

Harry raised his foot, the one not wearing a shoe, when a heavy colander would have rolled right over it.

Rumbling, tinkling, crashing noises slowly subsided, leaving the ear-popping sound of sudden silence in its wake.

Finally, the worst of the danger seemed over. Harry's ears were still ringing, and he remembered with a horrible sinking feeling that the Ministry watchers were probably still sitting outside the house. Thankful at least that the kitchen was mostly underground and away from the road; would that dull down the sound enough? Harry glanced around the room for Kreacher. Where was he? Had he been hurt?

His eyes darted, taking in the chaos.

But, to Harry's amazement, the crazy little house-elf seemed to rise to the occasion magnificently. As he watched, Kreacher was darting around the kitchen nimbly, a comparatively large saucepan tucked under his left arm. Harry stared in surprise as Kreacher scurried forward and upended a cauldron to reveal three stunned and dazed pixies trapped within its recess. As quick as you like, Kreacher picked the three creatures up and stuffed them into the saucepan he carried. Then he jumped left a foot and stomped. When he raised up his leg, Harry saw a very squashed spider crushed into the floor.

Kreacher was wearing a gruesomely wide smile.

"That…works, I guess."

Inspired, Harry turned too and found himself a nice, lidded pot and set about cramming it full of pixies, starting with the ones he had immobilised. Sealing the lid shut, Harry returned to his battle with the remaining survivors. He thought he could count only twelve left, and that was far more manageable than he had expected.

A few minutes later, Harry stopped moving with a huff. Heavy breathing aside, he had twisted his ankle while stepping on one of the pots on the ground, lost a small chunk of hair to aerial bombardment, and his eyes were watering from its sudden, stinging removal. He hunched forward to catch his breath.

That had…not gone so well.

In the comparative silence of the confrontation's aftermath, he heard to his mild amusement the low, sullen sound of Kreacher's mutterings.

"…teach you to break Mistress' good china…living in the good Black kitchen, bold as brass…mad half-blood Potter is bringing his vengeance on thieveses and sneakers of the House of Black…should boil you or burn you…nasty biting foods is being baked in the oven…"

Harry's eyes grew a little wide. But on second thoughts, really, he knew Kreacher better than this. Getting revenge on creatures that had resisted cleaning and eating over years of solitude was quite reasonable for the surly house elf. He wasn't sure how he felt about being promoted to 'mad' half-blood Potter, over being just plain 'strange', or 'dirty' but he'd deal with whatever came his way.

He hastily reached forward to halt Kreacher as the house-elf tried to open the oven door.

"The mad half-blood Potter is stopping Kreacher?" Kreacher peered up at Harry suspiciously.

"…You don't put saucepans in the oven," Harry eventually managed. "And I think there's something living in there at the moment too. How about we do it this way?"

* * *

Ten minutes later, there were three saucepans and a lidded casserole dish rattling menacingly on the kitchen floor, their lids sealed tight to trap their contents. A half-hearted _reparo_ failed to fix the pot rack, but a firmly controlled _wingardium leviosa_ finally had the huge framework hanging back up on the ceiling where it should be, refilled with its freshly cleaned contents. Under Kreacher's scowling gaze, Harry also fixed up all the broken china – "Mistress' best set", her "favourite teacup", and all the rest – and replaced them on their proper shelves. The kitchen looked slightly improved, excepting for Harry's aching body and the fact that only one cupboard had actually been cleared.

While Kreacher trotted off to see if their Ministry watcher had noticed anything, Harry set about fixing himself up. His shoe he located easily; the shoelaces took only a moment to fix – it turned out that they had been snapped. He numbed the bump of his forehead that would fade with time, and he fixed up his glasses as well, which had somehow cracked again in the chaos. He'd just finished putting the groceries in the pantry when he heard footsteps coming down the stairs.

"How is it looking?" Harry asked, as Kreacher trudged back into the kitchen.

Kreacher scowled. "Wizards is being very stupid. Kreacher is seeing the bad wizard sleeping at the stairs."

Harry wondered if it was the same wizard who had failed to notice Sirius and himself sneak in the night before. Was the poor sod exhausted from shift-work? Or just terribly bad at his job? Either way, it seemed like the dreaded catastrophe had been averted, and further cleaning was still his priority.

He scratched the back on his neck, where his sweat was rapidly drying into itchiness.

"Perhaps you could do that trick to stop noise getting out again?" Harry asked hopefully. "And meanwhile, I'll…ugh. I don't have Mrs Weasley's recipe for Doxycide." Harry scrubbed his face with the back of a sleeve. "Do you happen to have a recipe in the house?"

Kreacher drew his meagre body upright. "The Ancient and Noble House of Black is not keeping doxies," he declared forthrightly.

Harry stared at the oven pointedly.

Kreacher deflated. "Kreacher is failing the young master. Kreacher is – "

"Then, I was thinking that perhaps we could do this another way," Harry interrupted, and settled to explain his plan to his mistrustful companion.

Soon they were sweeping through the kitchen with a kind of furious efficiency. Kreacher would open whatever cupboard or cabinet was in question, allowing Harry to lurch forward and jam an enlarged saucepan or jar of some kind to the door to catch whatever attacking animals that swarmed out.

Jamming the lid on with spells, or fixing the container upside down on the floor or table allowed Harry to move his attentions back into the cupboard. Not all infestations attacked, Harry found out. Some lurked in the back of cupboards, hissed and snapping mandibles and scuttling sidewards towards deeper shadows.

Either way, their little routine allowed Harry to clear the first hurdle and petrify whatever remained in the cupboard. Or the oven. Or in the sink and drains, as it turned out. This allowed Kreacher to jump on anything threatening or otherwise moving that they missed.

They broke a few plates here and there, with overly enthusiastic knockback charms and jinxes, but Harry soon fixed those up with a few _reparos_.

Half an hour into their task, Harry was leaning over the latest cupboard door, tapping the bottom of the upended container hopefully. He could see something lurking in the corner of the cupboard, behind the rolling pin, but nothing had leapt or swarmed or otherwise attacked. Yet he could clearly see six eyes blinking at him from within the gloom.

"Alright," he murmured to Kreacher commandingly. "I'm going to take down the glass jar in five, and go in with a _knockback_. On the off chance I miss, or they scatter, you'll need to be ready with your ladle. In three, two, one…"

He dropped the jar to the floor with his left hand and a large bang resounded as Harry sent the jinx into the back corner of the cupboard. To his astonishment, the eyes moved; instead of scattering to the sides or scuttling across the floor of the cupboard, all six eyes leaped, rising up the back of the cupboard and then propelled themselves directly towards Harry's face. He had time to see black fur, and legs, and then he stumbled and fell backwards and over.

With a house-elf war cry, reminiscent of the Battle of Hogwarts, Kreacher leapt over Harry and swung his ladle like a cricket bat. There was a shriek and a chatter, and Harry shuffled backwards on his rear to see Kreacher crossing blows with a spider that was over half the house elf's size.

The spider moved fast, stabbing its legs forward and hurling thick cables of spiderweb over Kreacher's head. But the house elf kept his distance, wielding the ladle with grace and speed that Harry could only see to believe.

There was a loud bang, and Harry saw, still sitting on the ground in astonishment, Kreacher point his knobbly finger and the spider was thrown backwards and tumble. It looked like the trick Dobby had once used on Lucius Malfoy. House-elves didn't use much magic, but boy, when they did…

The spider swiftly regained its footing, but was tied up some by the trail of webbing that it had rolled over.

"For the mad Potter and Master Regulus and the House of Black!" Kreacher hollered, thundering forward.

If Harry had ever doubted that house-elves held within them the potential for dangerous resentment, he would have re-evaluated them today. If seeing Dobby with Malfoy, if seeing Kreacher with Sirius had not convinced him, the sheer righteous anger and destruction wreaked upon the spider by Kreacher's ladle and his left-hand index-finger would have opened Harry's eyes. He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the smashes and thuds dealt out by Kreacher, and grabbed the nearest jar.

Thinking nostalgically of Hermione, Harry promptly made it indestructible, and upended it to hover threateningly over the battle before him.

Shortly thereafter, the pace of the battle moved on, and Kreacher threw his ladle away to physical wrestle his furious foe. The spiderwebs were now wrapped tight around five of its legs, and with every good blow, Kreacher could force it to roll over and pick up some more of the threads. Harry watched carefully for a break in the fight, and soon Kreacher thrust out with his index finger again, and sent the spider tumbling over and backwards to bounce off a wall.

Harry's wand thrust downward. With a slam, the container crashed down over the spider. Another twitch of his wand, and the jar flipped right way up, and while the restrained spider scrabbled free of the threads, Harry jammed the lid on and sat back with a sigh.

Kreacher popped up near his elbow, an unholy look of glee on his face, and a long, wicked-looking carving knife clutched in his hands.

"Er…" said Harry intelligently.

To his lack of surprise, Kreacher was all for stabbing it to death through the carapace, but Harry really didn't want to see the carving knife used for that particular purpose. He didn't think he would feel right eating off it later on.

Kreacher capitulated with a grumble, but cheered up again when he dived back into the cupboard and emerged with an egg-sac the size of his own chest. Silently, Harry held out another jar, and was equally careful in ensuring no spider hatchlings could escape once they hatched.

The rest of the kitchen cupboards were cleared easily after that, but both Harry and Kreacher looked a little worse for wear when Harry finally sat back on his heels and finally called a halt.

Harry looked at their rattling containers in satisfaction. There had been two doxy infestations, and three infestations of Cornish Pixies so far, plus a hive of Cheshire Pixies which turned out to be even more trouble than their more common cousins. Harry had immobilised the whole lot and transferred the nests wholesale into the containers. With the lids safely on, the pixies were hovering furiously inside the glass, banging on the surface with very angry faces. The doxies still seemed dizzy for now, but Harry wasn't looking forward to them regaining their strength.

The other insects had been relatively easy to deal with, but Harry and Kreacher had swept what they could into other containers for storage anyway. Harry wondered if there was anything they had collected today that would sell for a decent price. Surely that huge spider at least was a mutant, or a result of some magical accident. Wizards bought stuff like that, didn't they?

They had also been surprised by an unusually large rat that had Harry flinching back in disgust. He was used to a lot of things, what with his unfortunate adventures and his life under the stairs, but feral rats were new to him. It looked diseased. Fortunately for him, Kreacher had better reflexes, and had caught the rat by its tail and flung it up into the air. Harry thought he should feel bad that Kreacher's carefully boiled plant roots were ruined by a violently drowned rat, but Kreacher seemed more satisfied than sorry.

Once the creatures were all out of their cupboards, it only took a second for Harry to dust up and polish the now empty kitchen with his wand. He thought slightly bad words in Mrs Weasley's general direction for not letting him do it this way last time. They had been under the Fidelius, for goodness sake!

Harry stood then, and raised his arms, his back cracking as he stretched.

"Good work today Kreacher. I think it's time to have, well, a late lunch now, I guess."

Kreacher nodded Harry's way, and they prepared to munch down on some more pre-bought pastries in relatively comfortable silence.

* * *

"I guess we should plan," Harry chatted to Kreacher companionably while he set up two plates on the table and conjured some cold water. "Sirius will stay here for a while, so we need to get the house moderately habitable soon. We'll need dinner tonight, so I'll get on to that soon, but…do you know much about the Ministry?"

Kreacher wasn't a likely font of information, but he was all that Harry had at the moment. "Kreacher is…Kreacher is not knowing," the elf was loath to admit, and promptly attempted to bash his head into the floor. Diving left, Harry's seeker reflexes got him there in time, so instead his left hand had the honour of thwarting the punishment: Kreacher stopped bashing his head into Harry's palm as soon as he realised it was Harry's hand he was smashing into the floor with his forehead.

Harry continued. "What I'm meaning is…my wand doesn't have the Trace on it, so we're safe while Sirius is in the trunk, but does the Ministry monitor active magic in general? I mean…if I spend a whole day doing cleaning spells where no spells have previously been, will they notice?"

"…Kreacher is not knowing."

Harry sighed, "In which case, I guess the next thing I need to do is figure out how to cast a Fidelius. What do you think? If I'm not supposed to be using magic, and Sirius might have tracking spells on him, and the Ministry is watching the house for any sign of activity, and I don't know how to cast what it probably an extremely hard, very complicated spell, and I can't use magic with Sirius in the same building but one of us needs to be the Secret Keeper, where should I start?"

To his complete lack of surprise, the reclusive house-elf had nothing to say.


	10. Mild Manipulations

Having spent most of the day cleaning – or hunting, as some might call the activity, Harry found himself growing uncomfortable by the end of his late lunch.

The bright, early-afternoon sun had dimmed as more London clouds covered the sky, and the influx of light had moved away from the table, running soft golden fingers along the newly cleaned floor as if it were exploring the new polish and shine.

Incidentally, it meant that Harry cooled off rapidly.

The sweat on his brow, on the insides of his robes, and the back of his neck lost the warm humidity of earlier in the day as he ate and drank and finally relaxed. As the rush of blood and heat faded from his face and the adrenaline dispersed, allowing Harry's heartbeat to slow and his instincts to settle, his damp robes grew chill and just a little bit unpleasantly sticky. Mid-afternoon shadows crept up his back and he stifled a little shiver.

The last straw came when he accidentally tipped a little bit of his pie down his front. Mild frustration blossomed.

"Ugh," Harry groaned, and ended his restful break. About to stand, he rapidly licked the pastry off his fingertips. Salty, buttery, flaky goodness titillated his tongue as he chased down the last of his lunch. The wizarding baking was as good as it always was, but he was beginning to really look forward to some genuine, home-cooked food. Perhaps tonight, if he were lucky?

A small frown chased its way across Harry's face as he felt a small twinge from somewhere in his lower back, and instead of standing up, he settled down in his seat with a swift gasp.

His muscles hurt! Muscles he didn't use while climbing Hogwarts stairs or playing quidditch. The sudden discomfort caught Harry by surprise.

Perhaps his lifestyle was more sedentary than he had thought? He shelved the idea so that he could revisit it later and instead returned his focus to the moment at hand.

Yup, there was definitely tenderness blossoming in his lesser-used muscles. Nothing too bad, of course, not at all like he had been after a few of his rougher fights but, still. Muscle stiffness from cleaning seemed a little like his body was betraying him.

Instead of standing, Harry slowly and carefully leaned back in his chair. His hands thrust up and out and _streeeetched_. The tension dissipated. Something in his neck clicked.

"How're you feeling, Kreacher?" Harry enquired out of polite habit.

To his mild surprise, Kreacher did not respond. Harry shot a glance at the house-elf perching on the seat nearby.

Then he startled.

The egg-and-bacon pie he had handed to Kreacher was clutched lovingly between Kreacher's long and visibly-jointed fingers. He'd half-expected the elf to gulp down the food just like Harry had; hard work made good appetites, after all.

Instead, the ancient little thing almost _cradled_ it lovingly in his hands, his fingertips barely making indents in the soft, crumbly pastry.

Harry watched in wide-eyed astonishment as Kreacher delicately tilted his neck forward to tenderly and gently nibble the tiniest bit from the edge of the crust.

"Er…Is it that good?"

Kreacher ignored him. Eyes closed in the purest of ecstasy, Kreacher instead chewed his tiny mouthful slowly. Savouring each flavour. The texture, Harry realised.

The softness of real food and the flavour of…well. Spices, herbs, meat, butter, salt and all the rest.

He realised with another jolt that Kreacher wouldn't have had _any_ of the things he usually enjoyed in food, for…Harry didn't even know. Years, at least.

A little twinge of guilt drifted across his mind, that Harry had not come to help before this third year back in time. He pushed it away with mental discipline and the ease of familiarity. The sudden tightness in his gut barely registered.

"When did you last have anyone else in the house, Kreacher?" Harry tried. But the little house-elf continued to ignore him. Instead, Harry saw an almost holy look of ecstasy on Kreacher's face; his leathery, brown skin was wreathed in grotesque wrinkles. Of delight, Harry noticed with a guilty kind of pity. The corners of Kreacher's mouth stretched out in a close-mouthed, somewhat gruesome grin as his whole attention was given to the cold pie Harry had bought a few hours earlier.

His eyelids fluttered in rapture.

Harry averted his eyes. Swallowing as quietly as he could, he suddenly felt terrible for trying to hold a conversation during such an intensely private moment. Shame, that he hadn't thought to provide Kreacher with good food, more food…food at all, earlier. He'd found out he'd been eating roots hours ago, for Merlin's sake!

Instead, he spun around to look out the window until the soft chewing noises and little hums of delight eventually stopped in their own time.

* * *

It wasn't too long after that when Harry stood in the end of the kitchen, the image of a bathtub held firmly in his mind.

The sun was still creeping its way along the floor towards the eventual sunset, but evening wasn't threatening for a while, giving Harry the feeling that he had tons of time to finish up his work for the day.

He stood in the only sunlit place in the room, where the outside light still streamed in the high kitchen windows of Grimmauld Place and pooled at his feet. Harry was going to take a bath.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry shot a look at the scowling house-elf by his elbow; Kreacher was not of the opinion that wizards should be having baths in the kitchen. Nor was he of the opinion that house-elves should be having baths at all.

Harry had no idea what form of hygiene they tended to prefer, because he had put his metaphorical foot down and _insisted_ that after literal years of solitude and bad habits, Kreacher would bathe today.

The sceptical house-elf was not convinced, leading Harry to rake frustrated hands through his hair.

His habitual action caught Harry's attention; instead of slick hair that slid through his fingers, his hair felt oily, rough and unusually tangled.

Curious, Harry held his wand-hand in front of his eyes to eye it interestedly.

He rather wished he hadn't, after that, because his frustrated fingers withdrew from his scalp with strands of silver spider webbing and at least one doxy wing clinging to his skin.

"Bath," Harry demanded immediately. "For both of us."

"House-elves is not—"

"That kitchen was filthy."

"Kreacher is—"

"And now so are we."

"The Ancient and Nobl—"

"After all that effort, it would be horrible if _we_ were the ones making a mess of the Ancient and Noble House of Black," Harry tried, cunningly.

Kreacher wavered. "The…the bathrooms are not…"

"I'll magic something up."

Kreacher paused in new astonishment. "The mad half-blood is…?"

Harry shrugged. "Look, we really do need to clean up. And the upstairs rooms aren't really fit to use."

"Kreacher is going to be using the mad half-blood's magic?"

Harry paused. Dobby had once mentioned 'sharing magic with a wizard' too. Was this some kind of cultural thing he'd never learned before?

"Uh…is that bad?"

Kreacher's peculiar eyes stared at him: measuring, distrustful, curious.

"…Well, is it?" Harry tried again.

To his amusement, Kreacher responded with that low muttering that tended to imply he didn't realise he was speaking out loud. "The young mad half-blood is being cracked, Kreacher thinks."

Harry cocked his head. "So will you bathe, after all that?"

Kreacher muttered. "The mad half-blood is sneaking and bossing and bringing the bad young master back. But he is cleaning. And giving Kreacher food to eat."

Harry remembered suddenly that feeding people was a great way to get people to trust you. Hadn't he literally done just that to Sirius? He wanted to slap his own forehead: he _knew_ his actions had greater consequences than he could always think of! At least in this case it worked out for him.

Kreacher raised his gaze. "The mad half-blood Potter is not letting Kreacher wipe himself down with his cleaning rag?"

Harry controlled his instinctual flinch. "Uh…when was the last time you cleaned that?"

"Kreacher is…Kreacher is cleaning it…" The small voice trailed off as Kreacher gazed at his own open palms in surprised disappointment. Apparently he could not find the answers in his widespread fingers.

"Right," Harry said, pity and humour warring within him. "We'll both have a bath now then, and then I'll start cooking us a proper dinner while you do the most urgent of laundry. For the House of Black, of course."

"The Ancient and Noble House of Black?"

Harry nodded firmly. "For its honour and reputation. Um, and to uphold its glory. We must, er, represent it with efficiency and, uh, hygiene."

"Its glory," Kreacher murmured.

"We have to be clean for it," Harry affirmed. "A good long soak should cut through some of the years of gri—er, soften your skin."

"…Its honour."

"Yup," Harry confirmed. "We must be impeccable representatives in all things. Organised. Clean. Gracious. Powerful. Pure of heart."

"For the House of Black!" Kreacher intoned, straightening his hunched back as far as it would go and clutching the front of his toga in religious ecstasy.

Harry turned back to the empty floor space in front of him and scratched his initial idea of a plain copper bathtub. Instead, he incanted the spell for magic-seeing and rapidly rethought his plans.

For the House of Black it is, then.

Kreacher stood behind Harry and muttered despairingly about months and years, listing events he could remember, desperately trying to recount when he last did laundry, Harry assumed.

As the soft glowing colours of magic brightened in his sight, Harry raised his wand and softly, slowly muttered the spell to transmute an impressive, 'powerful' bathtub.

In his mind's eye, the spell-weave formed slowly, more slowly than Harry had even cast before. Threads of magic blossomed with light – silvers, greens, browns – and Harry drew them carefully, gently towards the centre of his focus.

As he watched, the layers and threads of magic wove themselves together. A faint, almost translucent image formed in the centre of the kitchen floor.

A plan copper tub. But that wasn't what he wanted, so with more finesse and control Harry had used before, he _rewove_ the magic.

This was all an experiment. He'd never paid much attention to bathtubs before, but Kreacher's mutterings behind him had stopped and he needed to make this look good.

The copper shine of the translucent bath paled and expanded. The oval shape stretched and elongated, mutating into a shapely porcelain thing with gently sloping sides and a gracefully curved lip at the top.

He made it attractive, paying more attention to detail than he usually did, in the hopes that Kreacher would warm up to him more. The large body of the tub was wide and sturdy looking, and with the steady guidance of his wand and image in his mind is soon rose off the ground. Solid-looking, copper clawfoot legs grew out of the base and pushed the whole bathtub five inches up.

In light of everything he'd just said, Harry figured he should pay homage to the House of Black, and stretched out his spell-making accordingly. He watched through narrowed eyes as his intent twisted the spell, as the original, instinctive lion's feet slowly narrowed and elongated to look more birdlike.

As the spell stretched, as Harry suddenly found himself _in control_ of the spell like he had never felt before, the clawfoot legs turned into ravens' talons – just like in the Black House heraldry.

In that calm, quiet stillness – that came easier and easier to Harry these days, when he was nervous or surprised or, apparently, focused – he noted that the magic seemed to linger at his wand tip, and lap at the insides of his body like a tide. It stretched out to transfigure the bathtub; it reached and worked and formed, but never snapped off, as he had always been used to it doing. He felt little waves of resonance lap against his insides, helping him feel his edges; little ripples of magic echoes moved within him as he powered the spell.

Harry's eyes grew large. This was, this was a thing to take note of. He felt within himself for the meaning, for the _depth_ of what he had just learned. He didn't want to end the spell just yet, he wanted to keep it going, he was so close…he was about to realise...

Paying special attention to the lustre of the porcelain body, Harry's eyes drifted down to contemplate the copper raven feet. He focused on them, dwelling on the detail of the front digits, the deadly angle of the talons – that could be thinner, now that he thought about it. He lengthened the legs slightly, giving them that lean, nimble look that ravens had and then wondered. How could he join the legs to the tub?

With a slow deliberation, Harry drew delicate copper filigree out of the solid metal legs: half a fleur-de-lis that cupped the porcelain sides of the tub and rippled. Small waves of running copper grew up the sides of the bathtub and turned solid in the shape of leaves, stylized just like those in the Black family tree.

Harry felt the magic waiting for him, checking he was finished, anticipating new refinements to the image in his head.

Somewhere in his memories or understandings of his own magic something clicked, like a little lock had been undone on a door Harry hadn't previously noticed.

 _This_ was controlling your magic. _This_ was spellwork.

Then he withdrew the magic from the spell, ending it cleanly so that a balanced, decorated bathtub stood proudly in the Black kitchen.

It just waited for hot water, which Harry provided with a flick of his wand.

"There you go," he said cheerfully, turning to the patient, somewhat confused Kreacher who looked on curiously. "After all the hard work of this morning, I figured we both deserved a bit of a clean-up."

Kreacher said nothing.

"So," Harry continued forging forward, "I figured there's nothing better for sore muscles than a hot soak in a bath – and bruise balm, of course, but that's for later." He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "I don't know about you, but I'm feeling a bit of a strain in some of the muscles I don't normally use."

Kreacher nodded wisely. "Young master Potter is needing a bath, he is."

Arrested, Harry took a disbelieving look at Kreacher before delicately raising his wand arm and, very subtly, sniffed in the direction of his armpit. "Well, I really don't think that _I'm_ the one who sme—" Harry paused. "Oh. The spiderwebs and dust. Yes. But I imagine you haven't had one for a while either – and I figured you could enjoy a nice bath here for a while, while I have my own back in my trunk."

"The mad half-bl…Kreacher would?"

Harry shrugged. "Well, yeah. I mean, neither of us can very well start preparing dinner when we're as dirty as we are. And, well." He took another subtle whiff of the sour, earthy smell emanating from Kreacher's yellowing tea towel. "Perhaps a change into clean clo—things for the both of us might be good too, eh?"

Very slowly, looking like he was just waking up, Kreacher reached a single hand upward to his chest to tug his dirty toga into his view. There was a long pause while Kreacher looked down his lengthy nose and froze.

"Uh," Harry tried. "Um. Hello? Kreacher?"

Harry licked his lips.

"I…I was thinking you could bathe here and change into new clo… _not_ clothes. Sorry, a new…uniform? Tea towel? I'm not sure what you call it, but I mean no disrespect. But new cloth, after you bathe?"

Kreacher's yellowing eyes rose to meet Harry's in some kind of silent shock, leaving Harry to wonder if he'd broken the grumpy old elf after everything.

"So, the bath first, do you think?"

The same hand slowly dropped hold of the toga and pointed disbelievingly towards the bath. "…For Kreacher?"

"Yeah," Harry nodded. "I mean, we've decontaminated this room of the worse of the vermin, but I'm not sure if it's clean enough for food preparation yet. I'm thinking soup – what do you think? Something light on the stomach, I reckon. Besides, I know I'd feel a bit better about winding up for such a big job – huge job," Harry realised, "the gigantic job of de-infesting the whole house, if I took some time to reward myself. Uh…and how much can we really clean, anyway, when the both of us are so dirty right now?"

While Kreacher didn't say anything, he didn't exactly disagree either.

"Besides," rambled Harry, "a bath would make us feel much better, and we've done a great job this morning, but a real, home-cooked dinner would be best for all three of us and I'd like to start preparing for that. Don't you think?"

Kreacher cocked his head a little like a cat would, still maintaining that awkward silence.

"Do, do you have a clean…fabric to change in to?"

"…Kreacher…Kreacher is not knowing, exactly."

"Right." Harry nodded. "Well, I'll conjure you up a clean…sheet-thing, that should last a few hours, and you can wear that after your bath and until you find some more clo—tea towels or do the laundry, like I was saying before. Is that cool?"

Kreacher nodded in silence.

"Okay…" Harry managed. "I guess it'll need to be, um, is this much too big?"

Cautiously, Harry drew of his magic to conjure up a white cloth that looked somewhat like a bath towel. Focussing carefully, he _felt_ the magic lap at his boundaries, waiting for his instructions for tweaking, perfecting, finalising. "A bit less?"

Kreacher nodded, and Harry slowly readjusted the unfinished spell inch by inch.

"This much? Smaller again? How 'bout now?"

When Kreacher finally nodded, Harry brought the spellwork to a close. The magic inside him stilled as the wand cut the flow of power, and he almost _saw_ the final threads of the spell fly out to tidy off the conjuration, separate from the well of power within him.

Then Harry's eyes went wonky and the world faded out of focus for a bit. He _had_ been doing quite a lot of spell work, Harry supposed. In fact, he couldn't remember another time that he'd been spell-working non-stop for more than three hours before. It was less of a sprint, and more marathon, he might say. Harry blinked away the tiredness purposefully.

He scratched his nose. "I'll be off then, for a bit, okay? I'll be in my luggage, near Sirius, you know, so you probably shouldn't call for me if you need me. But I'll be out in half an hour or so. You should…You should probably have a really nice long soak yourself. At least twenty minutes. Preferably more."

His wand twitched once more before Harry turned to leave the room. "There's some soap for you, when you need it, and I've transfigured a towel – on the table there – for you to dry yourself off with. Um. I'll be going now, then, I guess? See you soon?"

* * *

Harry technically did have a bath, just it didn't take him nearly that long, because he wanted to check in on Sirius. The lack of movement that Sirius had made so far this morning was also not giving Harry any sense of relief.

He had been very concerned last night with how erratic Sirius had been behaving, and he really didn't know how to fix it.

He had thought of Cheering Charms the night before, but during his manic moments, Sirius had been overexcited already. A Calming Draught was Harry's only other option, or rather, was all he could otherwise think of. He didn't think he wanted to just throw magic at Sirius without waiting for things to settle down, but perhaps he could make up a potion or two in his own time and give them to Sirius when it was... urgently necessary, perhaps? A trip to the apothecary for ingredients would have to happen tomorrow when he went to buy breakfast.

But that wasn't a long-term solution, it wouldn't fix the problem, Harry knew from his studies. It could only mask the problem while allowing the sufferer to gain a little more distance from their trauma. Harry was of the opinion that eleven and a half years in Azkaban was a trauma that would take a long time to get over.

A healthy body, healthy mind, Harry could only hope, and so he would have to feed Sirius up.

He opened the trunk lid again with a click and clambered down the steep steps into the compartment. It seemed Sirius was stirring, he'd rolled over in his sleep since Harry had popped in last. Harry thought it was a good thing.

"Sirius?" He tried.

There was a long groan from the bed and Sirius' arms rose up and out in a long, slow stretch. Then he sat up with a start.

"James? James, thank goodness you're here. I had the most awful dream."

Not knowing what to say, Harry stayed quiet. There was a horrible silence.

"…You're not James."

"Sorry."

Sirius swore, and scrambled up. He hunched back against the far wall, staring fixedly at Harry while Harry watched in bemusement. "Who are you then? How did you get here? What do you want? Hey! Speak up, or I'll kill you. I- I- I'm Sirius Black, wanted mass murderer, you know?

Harry held his hands out peaceably. "Sirius? You're my godfather. I'm Harry."

"Harry's just a wee tot," Sirius snarled. "You look more like James. You…Do you know James? James Potter? I'm a good mate of his...?"

Harry spoke slowly. "I'm James' son, Harry. It's been over ten years since you've seen me. I've grown up a bit."

"Oh, that's right. But Harry lives with his mother's sister. They're muggles, and…where is this? Where have you taken me? I…I won't let the Ministry take me – I'll fight, you know!"

"You came to my aunt's house a week or so ago, and last night we ran away together. This is my luggage compartment, I bought a fancy one with Undetectable Expansion Charms so I could sleep here."

Sirius shivered. "I…James? You sure you're not James?"

"I'm his son," Harry repeated. "Your godson."

"I thought…but…Too good to be true, I guess," said Sirius, and slowly unfurled from the wall. "So you're Harry then?"

"…Hi?"

Sirius bounded away from the wall with a leap that Harry flinching, but all he did was reach out and ruffle Harry's hair. "Harry! Pup! It's so good to see you. Wow, you've grown, I guess you'd be…twelve? Thirteen now? Damn, but you look like your dad. Except your eyes, you've got your mum's eyes. Has anyone ever told you that?" He was interrupted by a very loud gurgle from his stomach. "'Scuse me," Sirius grinned awkwardly. "But boy am I hungry. I don't suppose…?"

Harry handed over the liver and onion pie he'd saved, and watched as his godfather scarfed it down like he was starving.

"How did you sleep?" Harry tried eventually, not quite sure what else to say.

"Bloody brilliant!" Sirius enthused, still licking his fingers. "I don't know if you realise just how long it's been since I've slept in a real bed, with an actual mattress, and real blankets, and no holes in the wall that a stiff sea breeze can't waltz through…"

Eleven and a half years, Harry knew. But he'd forgotten that Azkaban had bars in the windows instead of glass.

"So you're feeling okay today then?"

Sirius' smile was so broad it looked feral. "Okay? I'm feeling fabulous, I am. It's a beautiful day, and the food is good, and my toes are warm, and I'm clean – I'm clean kid! Boy, you have no idea…But that just means it's the perfect time to go rat hunting, you know?"

"…Er, hang on…"

Sirius started moving around the room, apparently looking for something within Harry's knick-knacks, while he hummed an eerie little off-key melody. "Great day to be killing old friends," he intimated to Harry with a wink. "Just a little murder to make the world a better place. It's been my only hope in Azkaban, you know." His tone darkened. "Not a happy thought, so they couldn't take it away from me, but it kept me going. Just the picture of that whiny little traitor shivering before me, begging for his miserable life…"

"I was thinking we might make this a planning day," Harry rushed out.

Sirius stopped. "Plan what? Find the rat, grab the rat, kill the rat. Seems pretty easy to me. Unless you want to throw in a little torture first? I'll be on board with that, if you want. Just a little revenge for Azkaban, before we send him on to James for justice."

"To keep you safe?"

"Oh," said Sirius, putting down one of Harry's little green soldier men with a surprisingly hard thud. "Way to kill the mood, Pup. I guess we're in a house now though. Can't skulk around as Padfoot in a house. _Hey_!" Harry twitched at Sirius' rising tone. "You called me Padfoot last night. I heard you! How'd you know that name? Who are you? I can't trust you, what are your plans? What do you want to do with me? I won't let you...I – I'm innocent! I didn't do it! I – " He stumbled backwards against the wall again and held up his arms to ward Harry off. He looked terrified.

Harry closed his eyes in pain. He had known that his slip up would come back to bite him. He knelt down onto the floor and spoke softly. "Pad–, Sirius? You told me? You must have told me. I wanted to call you Snuffles at first, remember? You came to my house as a dog? I fed you?"

The small lie came easily off his tongue with only the mildest of guilty twinges.

"I…" said Sirius, "I was a dog?"

"You came to find me," Harry nodded. "Wanted to see if I was okay, I guess. And I gave you salami and water."

"Yeah, that's right. I'm a dog, I'm Padfoot…I – how did you know that?"

Harry made sure not to show any of his worry on his face and deflected madly. "Silly Sirius. I've seen you as a dog, remember? You came to visit me."

"Huh," Sirius settled, his arms relaxing. "So you did. I…you say I told you to call me Padfoot?"

Harry really wasn't sure if it was safe to lie to Sirius, but he didn't really have another choice. He felt horrible as he opened his mouth, but what was one more little lie to Sirius on top of everything else he'd been telling his friends for the past two years? "I wanted to call you Snuffles, remember? Because you were a dog and I…was lonely?" He cocked his head. Would Sirius believe him? "And then I ran away from home, and we became two runaways together. And I learned you were Padfoot."

Sirius remained curled up protectively, but his head rose to gaze inquisitively at Harry. "That sounds…I guess that's how it happened then. I thought…I guess you must be right."

Carefully, Harry settled down on the floor to chat with Sirius for a while. It wasn't quite what he was expecting, but Sirius was far less stable than Harry had predicted. Hopefully a new routine and familiarity would settle the damaged man down.

"I'll head upstairs and begin cooking dinner soon, I reckon," Harry began. "But there's a friend of mine taking a bath in the kitchen so I've got a bit of time. Uh…" he hesitated, eyes flickering over Sirius' face carefully, tension relaxing when he saw Sirius was still in a safe kind of mood. "I thought you might be able to tell me a bit about my dad?"


	11. Kreacher Comforts

Before Harry knew it, three days had passed rapidly. Between himself and Kreacher, the lower floors of the Black house were rapidly decontaminated if not precisely brought up to snuff.

The various infestations that had caught his eye that first night had been caught, trapped or otherwise contained. He'd sold some to a couple of animal enthusiasts, breeders and collectors. Others he'd released into the wild on the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest. Some just got Vanished.

This left the lounge or drawing room – whatever it was called – generally safe to be in, although the scent of dust and mildew was still heavy.

Harry cast a few _reparos_ at the furniture, which fixed frayed fabrics and faded designs. However, he wasn't convinced as to the efficacy of his actions and wasn't _quite_ willing to risk his own behind on sitting on any of the newly repaired seats.

"Whaddya reckon?" he asked his newest companion, who had a tendency to follow him around the house whenever Harry attempted to wander.

"Kreacher is seeing the mad half-blood Potter is trying."

Harry shot a look sideways. "Hey! This is pretty good for a first timer!"

Kreacher nodded his head wisely. Supportively, Harry might have said. Hermione would have called it indulgently, if she were here.

"The young mad half-blood is doing his best."

"…Sure." Harry nodded. "Yeah, I'll…I'll keep working on that, I guess."

He added a couple of household hints and furniture restoration books to his wish list and decided to renovate the rooms when he was sick of studying and looking after Sirius.

He couldn't have Kreacher looking down on him, after all.

Speaking of whom, Kreacher was all for taking down the curtains and giving them a good wash, now that his laundry system was up and running again. Apparently Harry's words had sent the small house-elf into paroxysms of cleaning. Harry had to rather forcefully point out that the Ministry watchers were still in front of the house and might just manage to notice whole windows being cleaned and polished and redecorated.

To Harry's amusement, Kreacher's complaints focused on Ministry priorities for a good few days.

Meanwhile, in a similar manner to what had eventually happened in the last timeline, the kitchen became the warmest, friendliest part of the building.

Harry woke up on the second day and wandered into the kitchen to find it as fresh and bright and clean as it had been in his recent memories of seventh-year. Had it really been only his seventh year in Wizarding Britain, after all of that? Things seemed to different now. Seventh-year seemed so long ago.

Harry's mind returned to the present.

The dust and mould, the two of them had dealt with together that first day when Harry brought back the groceries. They'd both had baths, eaten soup for dinner and Harry, at least, had gone to bed to sleep the sleep of exhaustion.

Now Harry was beginning to think that Kreacher hadn't slept at all, because the kitchen had been transformed when he woke up.

The countertops and table were no longer clean, but _gleaming_ with polish and shine and Merlin only knows how much elbow grease.

The cast-iron stove had been emptied of old ash and scrubbed free of rust, as had the open fireplace where the huge cauldrons tended to hang.

Cupboard hinges no longer squeaked, the stone tiles shone and the gaps between stone slabs were apparently scraped clean by some determined kind of detailed work at goodness-knows what time of night.

Apparently, allowing Kreacher to destroy and keep the locket had had similar results as last timeline.

"This looks fantastic, Kreacher," Harry exclaimed as he wandered into the warm, cheerful room in the first minutes after he woke up.

Kreacher had the fire going cleanly, and was pottering around getting breakfast porridge sorted as Harry stumbled in.

"The mad half-blood is being getting Kreacher things to eat and leaving him to get on with it," Kreacher insisted in return, so Harry settled down at the table to watch the house-elf at work, and spun his wand for want of anything else to do.

Kreacher, newly washed and dressed in a neatly mended toga, looked like a changed house-elf.

"How are you this morning?" Harry asked, lacking anything else to do and wanting to confirm their improved relationship.

"Kreacher is being a good house-elf," the little being replied, toddling over to a clean and shining kettle that he promptly hung over the fireplace.

"Great!" Harry exclaimed. "And how are you _feeling_ this morning?"

Kreacher turned to stare at Harry with a somewhat comical expression. "Kreacher is feeling like a good house-elf."

Oh. _Oh._ "That's awesome," Harry grinned. "I feel pretty good myself, after yesterday.

Kreacher nodded wisely. "The mad half-blood is doing much better work than Kreacher is expecting."

"…Thanks."

There was an awkward lull in the conversation for a moment while Kreacher kept busy, muttering quietly to himself all the while. Harry tried to figure out if more talking would help or hinder the relationship with his new ally.

"Here is being some tea," Kreacher croaked eventually, disturbing Harry from his musings and sliding a very fine china cup in front of him.

"Oh, thanks."

Harry clasped his hands carefully around the body of the cup and inhaled the slowly rising steam. It smelled fresh, with some kind of flavour he hadn't had before.

He lifted the fine china cup up to his mouth and had a sip of the steaming hot drink.

Hot. It tasted like…Harry searched for the word for a moment, taking a second, deeper sip while he searched through his memory for the precise word. While he mused, his fingers stayed curled around the teacup. The warmth seeped into his fingertips gently, warming the knuckles of his fingers and sending soft tingles of comfort up his wrist and forearm.

He took a pensive sip again.

It was green tea, obviously. Something fresh and leafy and ever so slightly sap-like…

His choked back a final sip with a cough and a splutter, and Vanished the cup's contents as soon as Kreacher had his back turned.

It tasted exactly like how one of the plants in the Restricted Hogwarts Greenhouses smelled, when Herbology got up to O.W.L levels.

Had Kreacher braved the garden for him again? Harry was touched, and ever so slightly disturbed. Were the leaves poisonous? He had no way of knowing.

Harry eyed the cauldron full of cooking porridge with some caution and concern. He'd bought all the necessary ingredients yesterday, hadn't he? There was nothing unusual _added in_?

* * *

After the somewhat oddly flavoured meal, Harry sorted out everything lacking in their pantry or kitchen pretty much straight away, buying some good black breakfast tea from a Hogsmeade shop first thing.

He discovered, wandering the shops as he did, a whole bunch of new stores and markets stalls that he had never before needed to notice.

Kitchen herbs and spices were sold at a variety of stalls in Hogsmeade in little paper packets, weighed by the ounce.

A Mr Wilkes provided him with a pile of new firewood, guaranteed to immediately thereafter keep the fire burning clear and fresh. Harry rather looked forward to the effect of fresh, dry pinewood while he stuffed each log into his mokeskin pouch.

A cheerful motherly witch, Madam Shepherd, provided Harry with milk in glass bottles, along with a small range of cheeses, "fresh out'a me own dairy, back on th' farm, they are."

Clayton Ashwood, an elderly, heavily tanned wizard with very grey hair and a bright ginger beard, sold Harry a basketful of soaps straight from his own workshop. He guaranteed they would work for dishes and cutlery and body wash as well – house-elves and wizarding folk both.

Mistress Weatherwax sold Harry and assortment of other culinary delights and honey, which Kreacher would hopefully use to flavour their meals instead of the…leafy goodness of the back garden. She thought Harry was a 'clever young lad' to help his old mum out, and Harry had to agree with the sentiment before she'd finally see him off.

Together with _Madam McMillan's Handy Household Hints_ , a spell compendium worth its weight in galleons, and a couple of do-it-yourself restoration guides, Harry felt that he'd made great progress in his shopping and returned home to work on his own plans. Sirius. The Grimmauld Place do-up. His study.

* * *

Back at Sirius' place, Kreacher and Harry found themselves spending many peaceful hours in the newly refurbished kitchen, squabbling peacefully about who would do the cooking, one or both of them pottering around the fireplace or stove, eating and studying.

To Kreacher's delight and Harry's frustration, they were never joined by Sirius. His godfather seemed to be sleeping off his exhaustion and hadn't stepped a foot out of the luggage since he and Harry and first arrived.

"Odd," Harry described it, worrying about the recovery of his godfather and the timing of his plans.

"Good," declared Kreacher, who didn't want Sirius "getting into the Mistress' good kitchen and making a mess of Kreacher's hard work."

"Wait – am I okay then?" Harry asked.

He'd claimed one end of the kitchen table to do his planning on, and pieces of paper and books of all kinds were usually spread out across at least half its surface.

"The young mad half-blood master is cleaning the kitchen," Kreacher muttered to his knees, and Harry took that as permission to stay.

Aside from the odd narration describing Harry's actions – "the mad young half-blood is reading his books and letting the good tea get cold", "the odd Potter is resting his elbows on the table" – Kreacher didn't seem to mind. Harry thought that perhaps the improvement of his household circumstances excused Harry's intrusion.

The house-elf was still surly, of course. He stalked around grumbling and scowling at all sorts of things, but Harry realised very quickly that there was no real bite to his complaints. Kreacher just seemed to have matured into a slightly senile and grumpy old man. Harry had dealt with worse.

For at least a few hours every day, Harry and Kreacher attacked the very upstairs rooms. Harry's _Household Hints_ book, and his newly found skill with spells – that strange holding, pausing, imaging – came in handy, because the bedrooms and sitting areas were far more complicated to clean than the kitchen. (He didn't even want to think about the library yet. That could come later. Maybe next holidays.)

Meanwhile, in between rattling cupboards and suspiciously echoing fireplaces, these rooms had carpets and curtains and fabrics galore, even if Harry and Kreacher were limited to the backrooms and windows not facing the road.

Harry tried to see what this new perspective on spell-making could do for him. He couldn't do it without the _occuluseo,_ he was quick to realise. That meant that he wandered the rooms with magic glimmering in his pupils and coincidentally noticed a few Dark Creatures to eliminate while he was at it.

Rather than simply snapping out a spell as he had previously, Harry taught himself to draw the casting out, holding the magic and shaping it before release. The magic didn't mind it – if 'mind it' was precisely the word – but years of practice meant it tried to rush through his wand into being without his conscious control.

 _Hold it back_ , Harry had to think as he stared at the faded green cushion on the divan in the ground floor drawing room. _Build it, hold it…feel the weight and the eagerness and the image in your mind_. He pictured a plump and fresh-scented pillow, silken threads bold in colour and compelling in a classic, ageless style. The gold braiding around the edges would be bright and striking-looking.

" _Reficio,_ " he breathed, trying out the renewal spell from the _Household Hints_ book, and the threads of magic unfolded out of his wand in a slow, graceful bloom.

With the magic in his eyes, Harry saw the pillow shrug, inhale. Its fibres seemed to breathe in as the stuffing filled with air and threadbare fabric reformed and thickened. Streaks of colour flowed up the twists of fabric and dyed the pillow-cover a luxurious green. To Harry's surprise, the faintest of gold threads seemed to run through the otherwise pure green fabric.

Had he…had he been aiming for that?

The single cushion seemed to regrow itself from the inside-out – not the just outside _snap_ to attention, like the previous _reparos_ he'd cast.

Magically enhanced eyes stretching to their limit, until his brain felt little sparks buzz and black spots appeared in his periphery, Harry stared into the magic he was casting. He stared into his own slow spell as it unfolded, as if it was the most fascinating thing he had ever seen.

The ripples within him trembled. There was…

Oh. There was an echo. In amongst the stern and austere sound – was it a sound? – the rhythm, perhaps; the _sense_ of the Black pillow, a kind of resonance had formed.

Harry could feel the spell stretch itself to fulfil its purpose. The magic was showing him what once had been there.

And the pool of magic within Harry trembled in response.

All of Harry's senses focused on the unfolding of his one, single spell. Time dilated, travelling slowly. So slowly that Harry's pulse in his ears stopped sounding like an actual heart _beat_ , but more of a whooshing rush of blood pulsing through his arteries between long moments of silence.

The magic blossomed slowly enough in his mind's eye that Harry could keep up, funnelling more direction from the inside of his being.

 _Ah_ , Harry thought. _That's the trick._ _Lasting magic. Deeper magic._ No wonder some students could cast slow in exams and get the top marks. _This was the next step in his learning._

Harry smiled.

He had far greater control over his spell output now than he ever had before.

* * *

They kept up with the cleaning, Kreacher and Harry, although neither was quite ready yet to make changes to front of the house. The Ministry watchers were still outside, although not very alertly, it seemed. They worked in three shifts, Kreacher reported, which seemed to Harry to be perfectly designed for subpar performance. Not that he was complaining.

They didn't dare do any cleaning in the entranceway either, where Mistress Black's portrait slept, or in any of the corridors surrounded by portraits and mirrors.

When Harry walked past Phineas Black's portrait – the one that could walk between the Black House and Headmaster's office – he almost had a heart attack, realising he'd almost ruined his plans once again.

That was resolved with an immediate wand-wave, a drapery of heavy white linen, and the observation that perhaps more cleaning of the upstairs should wait until he'd figured out the Fidelius Charm.

It was Sirius that had Harry most worried. They had good moments, now that Sirius was getting three meals a day. And Sirius was warm and comfortable inside Harry's trunk, which could only be good. He wasn't sure if he was imagining things, but Harry hoped he could see Sirius' ribs showing less. His wheezing was slowly improving too, to Harry's relief.

But Sirius steadfastly refused to leave the compartment, stubbornly insistent that he eat and sleep and live within those four walls. On the two occasions that Harry had tried to insist, Sirius had grown very agitated and aggressive, forcing Harry to give in. Harry had simply collected a chamber pot that Sirius could use for his comfort, and resigned himself to a longer wait.

Sirius had also returned to living as Padfoot for most of his day, which had Harry concerned. Padfoot the dog seemed healthier than Sirius the man, which was fine, but Harry had noticed a concerning trend.

Sirius turned human when Harry came with food, waiting at the bottom of the stairs; by the time Harry can fully opened the luggage lid and rested it on the group, _and_ picked up the food to bring down the stairs, Sirius was standing there, looking like he'd always been that way. While he ate, he happily chatted with Harry about the Marauder's adventures at Hogwarts.

JIt was just that when Harry peeked in the compartment through a lid cracked open just an inch, there Padfoot sat and panted. Curled up in a corner in dog form and gazing at the walls, Sirius hadn't moved from there as far as Harry had spied.

He'd been locked up in a small room for years! Surely Sirius should be exploring his limits by now?

His odd choices didn't seem very healthy to Harry.

* * *

Harry stepped out of the Apparition point in Diagon Alley on the fourth morning, keeping all this in his mind. He had a To Do list so long that he had actually brought the piece of paper to remind him of everything.

The Post Office was first, and then the bookshop. He needed all of his third-year textbooks, plus anything that could help him understand Sirius' strange behaviour, and to research the Fidelius.

The apothecary was next, and then Harry had to stop by the market to collect enough food for the next three days. The wizarding world had many wonders, but the lack of refrigeration was an unwelcome surprise.

He made it back to Grimmauld Place safely, Apparating into the kitchen instead of the trunk. Kreacher was always surprised by the noise, and tended to sulk for half an hour or so every time after Harry did so. It was apparently breaking some kind of universal rules of etiquette and displaying apparently unseemly behaviour, but Harry didn't have many other options. Sirius might have attacked him if the crack of Apparition happened anywhere near him and the Ministry watcher was still waiting outside.

The crazy old house-elf was the safer option, and wasn't that a sad thought.

So soon Harry had himself spread out over his usual seat at the table, reading his mail.

 _Dear Harry,_ the first letter started,

_I am so sorry that your birthday present is late! My parents and I are holidaying in the French Riviera, and I had no idea where to find an Owl Postal Office all holiday, until now. There's some incredible historical areas that I've visited so far, and I'm so pleased that my parents let me travel with my wand (not that I've been using magic of course, because that would still be illegal even if I am overseas), because I've been keeping an eye out and managed to find my way to the local wizarding market just today. It's almost like Diagon Alley, you have to walk up a little side alley and tap your wand on a statue set into the wall, and the archway opens up into a beautiful little shopping district. I've taken photos, I'll show you some when I get back._

_So I've rewritten my whole History of Magic essay to include some of the interesting things I have learned while I'm over here. I hope the essay isn't too long – it's over two feet longer than what Professor Binns asked for – but everything was so fascinating and I've bought some books on French wizarding history. Can you read French, Harry? I'll loan them to you if you're interested._

_Otherwise I've been trying to keep up with England, and I've been getting the Daily Prophet delivered. Have you heard any more about this Sirius Black person? He seems terribly dangerous, don't you think? Do stay safe Harry, although I suppose you are the most mature one out of all of us._

_Let me know what you think of your birthday present. I was doing a bit of research for third year and thought you would enjoy this too. I've already read it, so I'd love to hear your thoughts when we see each other next._

_Neville says that he and Ron are meeting up in Diagon Alley to do their school shopping the Saturday before school goes back. Have they spoken to you? I thought we might be able to all meet up and spend the day together. My parents would love the chance to meet your aunt and uncle – the muggles should stick together, they've been saying recently._

_Happy belated birthday!_

_Much love,_

_Hermione_

Hermione was a bit different in this timeline, Harry mused as he dug through his pile of postage to find a parcel that felt like a book. She had not smuggled a dragon out of school, or explored the forbidden third-floor corridor, and certainly didn't believe a teacher had tried to kill Harry. Therefore, Hermione's straight-laced rule-following shouldn't really come as a surprise. But her letters were also…warmer…somehow. More personal. Her family had never expressed a wish to meet his before, Harry frowned as he ripped open the brown wrapping paper. But this timeline Harry's best friend was…well, he'd said it was Ron a few months ago, hadn't he? But he spent more time with Hermione, Harry supposed, or possibly Neville. Not Ron…not really Ron at all, and almost never just the two of them, he had to admit, so maybe that explained the differences. He'd have to head off enquiries into his relatives next time he met with his friends.

Harry wondered idly if Sirius would have any comments for him on that, and then remembered that Sirius wasn't really focussing on any of the complicated friend-stuff yet. He shelved the thought.

Instead, Harry's thoughts trailed off as he removed his birthday present from the thick and glossy paper it had come in and something unexpected caught his eyes. To his mild surprise, Hermione's gift was nothing to do with Quidditch, or even homework. _The_ _Intuitive Reading of Modern Runes_ was a thick book hard-bound in some kind of brown leather.

It definitely hadn't been on the book list for Hogwarts third-years, so Harry wasn't quite sure what she'd been thinking.

It didn't seem the kind of thing…but wait. Harry had been a lot more studious this timeline, after all. He supposed Hermione had noticed him read a few Runes books at the end of last year, and had kindly bought him 'extra reading'. How things had changed.

He carefully cracked open the cover, and saw tucked inside the book a luxury Eagle feather quill, and a neat little inscription on the cover page:

_To Harry, with love. Hermione Granger. '93._

Harry smiled as he put Hermione's present aside, and picked up his next letter.

Kreacher plonked another cup of tea on the table in front of him and muttered about the 'mad half-blood looking after his health'. He was being _managed_ , Harry noticed with a thankful grin. It didn't feel all that bad, actually.

Then he took off his glasses to polish them clean, and resettled them onto the bridge of his nose with a thoughtful kind of frown.

This letter looked formal and fancy, with a deep blue ink in a strict kind of handwriting that he was beginning to be familiar with. Harry carefully slit open the wax with curiosity, working his little letter opener with precise control. His smile faded.

_Dear Mister Potter,_

_As you may have learned from the news, a wizard by the name of Sirius Black has recently become the first known wizard to escape the wizarding prison, Azkaban. Remembering what you had told me with regards to your relation to him, namely, your claim that he is your godfather, I have spent the past week researching his trial and subsequent incarceration to ensure that you and your circumstances will remain unaffected by the criminal's actions._

_Mr Potter, it is my sad duty to inform you that Sirius Black may be a threat to your safety as long as he is at large and evading capture. Mr Black was arrested on November 1, 1981, on the charges of murdering Peter Pettigrew, twelve muggles, and as an accessory to the murder your own parents, James and Lily Potter._

_In light of your concerns, I have attempted to investigate the pertinent trial records, and must confess that thus far the evidence suggests that he was incarcerated without trial. While this is a clear failure of justice, my concerns remain concerning your safety and the intentions of Mr Black himself._

_My investigations have revealed that Mr Black weathered his incarceration better than many of his companions, and has reportedly failed to descend into the sedentary madness of other inmates during his time in the most heavily guarded cells in the prison. He is capable of rationality, and witnesses have reported him muttering in his sleep, "He's at Hogwarts". It is my personal belief, and the belief of many who have been forced to interact with him over the years, that Mr Black may be intending to hunt you down in a fury of misguided justice for your role in ending the reign of terror of his master, the Dark Lord. Allow me to warn you that long-term prisoners in general, let alone prisoners of Azkaban's high-security wing, are institutionally unable to readjust to the outside world, and that Mr Black may be unpredictable as he fails to cope with his experiences of freedom, his freewill and his emotions for the first time in years._

_Mr Black is not considered armed at this time, but remains the most dangerous wizard currently at large. The Ministry's silence as to his method of escape indicates that no-one has any idea how he managed to break out of prison._

_I entreat you to tread carefully this upcoming year. I will continue to investigate the matter pending further instructions from yourself._

Harry allowed himself a pleased little smirk in the direction of his trunk, within which Sirius was safely and secretly ensconced. Then he frowned again, because things didn't seem good for Sirius, even from the perspective of his own personal, apparently unbiased legal representative.

His eyes skated further down the letter to read the final paragraph.

_On a more mundane matter, the intricacies regarding your inheritances continue to be cleared up nicely. It seems that your accountant, Mr Rowle, estimates that much of the gold you have been bequeathed will go towards backdated payments. However, you will certainly end up with a net gain consisting mostly of furniture, trinkets and at least one small property just outside of Aberdeen. A full report is forthcoming._

_I await your reply with all diligence,_

_Yours respectfully,_

_Erasmus_ _Lloyd-Elliot_

Harry folded the letter up thoughtfully. He had been half-convinced that Sirius' protestations about his lack of trial had been confused. Surely no legal court that would give a trial to Bellatrix Lestrange would refuse to do the same to Sirius Black. But Mr Lloyd-Elliot seemed like the type who would only pass on reliable information.

What the lawyer had said about Sirius' freedom, free will and emotions rang bells though, and Harry wondered precisely what it meant. Sirius had the freedom and free will to do as he wished now, and was apparently dedicated to hunting down Wormtail. Upon reflection, Sirius' refusal to leave the luggage compartment was keeping Harry off-balance for more reasons than simply its contrast to the previous timeline's living in a cave. Sirius should want fresh air, exercise and sunshine, now that he wasn't stuck in his cell.

Harry scratched his head in thought. The emotions bit made sense though, now that someone had pointed it out. For eleven-and-a-half years Dementors had been stealing all of Sirius' positive emotions, so it seemed natural that now he had to deal with them again, Sirius seemed unhinged. It would also explain why he felt better as Padfoot: there was less disconnect between his current and prior states.

Harry scribbled a quick note back and moved on.

Kreacher wandered around him muttering under his breath, but didn't actually scold Harry for his mess. Instead, he just grabbed the other purchases from Harry's shopping back and put them away, leaving the kitchen full of the domestic sounds of earnest efficiency.

* * *

The week passed. Harry failed to find any information on the Fidelius, but when not cleaning the back rooms, he and Kreacher spent time only in the downstairs kitchen. Presumably, the watchers never saw anything suspicious, because their number never increased.

Harry also mucked around a bit with his potions textbooks, finally brewing a very few, very gentle potions that could help Sirius without endangering his health. Dreamless Sleep. Calming Draught. Vitamix. He longed to get rid of all Sirius' pneumonia symptoms with one good dose of Pepper Up, but he knew enough from his own studies that it worked by stimulating the body. Logically, that might put a sensitive body, already weakened through long-term health problems, into shock. He just couldn't risk it yet.

He kept up his studies in the Grimmauld Place kitchen, where Kreacher soon grew accustomed to his presence. The elf was still reluctant to house his master, the prodigal Black, however, until one fateful afternoon.

"Is the odd half-blood Potter staying here?" Kreacher inquired as he slipped Harry some freshly brewed tea. "And is the bad, naughty master still hiding in his box?"

"Only for one more week," Harry admitted, secretly feeling quite chuffed he'd been promoted again from 'mad' to 'odd'. "I have to go back to Hogwarts. I was planning for Sirius to stay here with you, since I know you can look after him, but I just don't know now if that's going to work."

Kreacher sniffed sullenly. "Kreacher is not minding the odd half-blood Potter, who is helping restore the House of Black to its glory, and is working with young master Regulus. But nasty, naughty master is not welcome in Mistress' good house."

"Did you know that he was in prison for something he didn't do?" Harry enquired.

Kreacher scowled heavily. "Nasty master is a blood traitor and a failure of a son, and befriends mudbloods and half-bloods to make his mother cry."

Harry found himself unable to argue with the specifics of the accusation, even if the language it was couched in was less than ideal. "Well, the Black family were followers of Lord…of the Dark Lord, were they not?"

"Proper good Blacks is giving good gold and advice to the Dark Lord," Kreacher nodded uncertainly.

Harry went on uncertainly. "But…did you know that the reason your young Master Regulus died was because of the Dark Lord?"

After a long and terrible pause, Kreacher shivered, "The...the _hands_ , the dead hands, and the empty eye holes, and the Dark Lord is leaving on his boat and Kreacher is so thirsty…my poor master, my poor, _poor_ young Master Regulus…the _thirst_ , the hands…"

"Kreacher," said Harry hesitantly. "Just like how your Master Regulus was willing to die to bring the Dark Lord down, Sirius has been trying to do that too. It was their parents who were his followers. Master Regulus changed his mind, you know. To agree with Sirius."

The pale, shaky elf looked struck by this logic and trembled a little where he stood. His ears drooped remarkably. Harry didn't want to look at the expression in Kreacher's eyes.

"Master Regulus was not…?"

"Master Regulus was so clever," Harry continued, settling in to the manipulation that was necessary, "that no one knew he was trying to help the Dark Lord die. And…and Sirius tried that too, but maybe he wasn't quite so clever about it, but he has been doing his best for so long."

"His…best?"

"I…" Harry tripped over his tongue, "Kreacher do you remember that horrible drink in the middle of the lake that you, and Master Regulus, that you had to drink? And how it made you feel that all the happiness had left the world, that you were a failure, that all the bad thoughts you had ever had came back, and it made you…feel all the bad feelings? Master Sirius, he's been in Azkaban for years and years, and the Dementors, they made him feel that way _all the time_. And he's been strong for so long, but he's so tired, and he can't remember what the good feelings felt like any more. Kreacher, is it so bad that I want Sirius to be happy and healthy again?"

"The…the bad master…"

Harry hurried on. "And, and after everyone else had died, and your Mistress Walburga, and Master Orion and Master Regulus had all gone, Sirius is still a pureblood Black, right? Did you know that the Ministry never even gave him a trial? They locked up a Black in a place that's that nasty and horrible, for something he didn't do. And they didn't even bother to check? Imagine if it had been Regulus."

"...If it was...?"

Harry chose his words carefully. "Even if he's your least favourite Black, he's still from the most Noble and Ancient House, right? And the Ministry just _didn't care_?"

Kreacher was rocking back and forth on his toes, his ears clutched tightly in he fists. There was a low whine coming from deep in his throat, and Harry didn't know what it meant.

"I know that you and Sirius don't get on. And, and that's okay. But I want to keep Sirius safe, and I know you're a good house elf and I can't do it without you. I…Kreacher?"

Kreacher's rocking and moaning got greater, and Harry paused for a moment. Then, when Kreacher's pain continued, he sat back and waited for Kreacher's attention to return.

After many minutes, Kreacher finally looked up. "The odd young master Potter says…?"

Harry looked at the pitiful little elf, and couldn't think of a way to make him feel better. "You can call me Harry, Harry Potter, if that helps," he eventually managed. "I…I know I'm a half-blood, and I know it was important to your mistress, but, but your Master Regulus changed his mind about many things, and... I…are you feeling okay?"

"Kreacher is– Kreacher is not well," the old house elf admitted. "Kreacher is listening to the mistress, and Kreacher is obeying Master Regulus. But Kreacher is not killing the locket and not cleaning the house. Bad Master Sirius is not welcome in the house, but Kreacher is– Kreacher is obeying Harry Potter. Kreacher is…Kreacher is…"

Harry judged that he had pushed the house elf far enough today.

"How about you take another nice long bath," Harry suggested. "I can transfigure up the nice bathtub with the Black heral…er, that's a no, then?"

He paused as Kreacher's rocking and moaning began again. The old elf was muttering something under his breath. Something about, "not worthy…young master Potter…but the Mistress…but the master…" and, "Bad Kreacher, naughty Kreacher…"

"Well, it doesn't have to be so flash," Harry tried. "We can take the biggest cauldron and pop it over the fire until the water warms up just right. And then you can…would you like to polish the silverware? I have my potions ingredients and can whip up some…what do you use to clean silver? Silver tonic? I think there was a page in my _Household Hints_ book with a recipe, and maybe you can polish and relax and take it easy. What do you think?"

Kreacher slowly started nodding his head. "Kreacher is taking a bath if he must," he agreed, apparently wanting to seem reluctant. "Kreacher is not wasting the hot water, no, Kreacher is a good house elf. And then Kreacher is wanting to polish the silver please."

"I'll find the recipe now," Harry agreed and left the elf to his thinking.

Harry was a much better manipulator now than he had been a few years ago. It was quite lucky that the Sorting Hat had agreed to Sort him into Gryffindor when he was back redoing first-year. Harry rather suspected that he would not be so lucky if he had to go through that again now.


	12. Chance Choices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, soliciting support and suggestions here: what do you think for a shop name? Willoughbys Wool and Weave, or Willoughbys Warp and Weft, for a wizarding craft store? Help me out.

More days passed, with Sirius continuing to refuse to come out of Harry's luggage compartment. Similarly, Kreacher refused to go in, so Harry spent his days developing a new kind of schedule.

Harry could be found, for most of his mornings, sitting at the kitchen table near where Kreacher was working and chewing a quill tip or two while scowling at his latest book. He'd finished rereading his old books all the way up to the end of sixth year, and was now busy trying to make sense of seventh-year concepts and new electives that he'd never taken before.

Kreacher tended to potter around him in quiet efficiency, occasionally ferrying a small snack or hot cup to tea to Harry's table.

When not in the kitchen, both Harry and Kreacher could be found working hard in the back half of the Black house, Kreacher using his startlingly powerful small body for hard labour, and Harry developing his wand-work.

Between the two of them, Harry found the cleaning go very quickly indeed, and had to force himself to stop thinking uncharitable things in Molly Weasley's direction.

He loved her dearly, he really did, but spell work made a huge difference to the cleaning process.

But the process was otherwise satisfying: it felt really good to see Grimmauld Place turn from a derelict house into something resembling a home. The task was something of a blessing, because it let Harry move his body (he needed those lesser-used muscles exercised), and let Harry practice his life skills (cleaning was necessary. He thought fondly of Andromeda Tonks' sock folding spell), _and_ it also let him explore the new concept he'd discovered in his spell-work.

Punctuating all of this, Harry also found himself walking into the compartment in his trunk where Sirius remained ensconced. A late breakfast, lunch and dinner were the best chances for Harry to have a good conversation with his godfather.

Over enticing scents and warm, curling steam, sometimes it even worked.

On good days, Harry sat crossed-legged on the floor and listened to Sirius talk about being at Hogwarts, his half-full spoon gesticulating excitedly with stories about the secret passages, the Whomping Willow, and near misses on the staircases. Sirius loved to talk about his "best mate, James" and Lily, who was apparently "scary bright" and "intense when she wanted to be, your mum."

On bad days, Harry slipped into the soft, quiet voice he'd used with Sirius those few days back, back when Padfoot first arrived in Little Whinging. He walked softly and slowly down the stairs, wand held loosely by his side. He got used to talking Padfoot out of his corner with nonsense sentences and hopeful pleas. He took a bite or two out of Sirius' food to prove it was safe, and backed slowly up the stairs so that Sirius could eat it in peace, unthreatened.

When those days happened, Harry found going back to focused study and manic cleaning a relief. The activities left his mind busy and unable to focus on worry or guilt. That way, he could push past the knowledge he should have come back for Sirius earlier. Should have planned ahead better. Should have more support ready.

The study itself was going very well, now Harry had experienced that little insight into…well, he hoped it was the next level in spell-craft. Not only did the theory stick a little better in his head because it made sense, but the possible adaptions of every spell seemed suddenly more accessible.

His transfiguration was suddenly effortless. Seventh-year concepts he'd struggled with – having never been taught them officially – flowed out of his wand with ease. Charms was a little more complicated – more variety to learn, basically, but Harry was getting there too.

It felt _good_ to indulge in the magic, work out the kinks in the process and somehow explore the effects of a wand twitch, or a different image, or incantation emphasis.

Plus, suddenly _all_ Harry's spells could be silent. How could he have gone through so much and only realise this step now?

Using his wand – even just for cleaning – felt so _satisfying_ when it all came easily.

It was infinitely preferable to that feeling in his stomach when worrying about Sirius and his plans, Harry's plans, Pettigrew…

The sudden increase in spellcasting mastery meant Harry could fill up all his newly discovered free time with research on potions.

Above and beyond Calming Draught and Dreamless Sleep, Harry learnt of Sweet-Sleep Lozenges, the Potion of Patience, Restful Remedy, and Digestion Concoction, to name a few. They all seemed pretty simple, even though they weren't on the Hogwarts curriculum.

They were easy to make, he shortly discovered, having set up his own cauldron in a quiet corner of the kitchen. Although a few early attempts had to be thrown out because the colour was off or the consistency was wrong, after a couple of hours each morning for a couple of days Harry thought he had the idea.

All up, the new potions were everything he'd hoped for – as long as they worked out as advertised.

They also seemed gentle enough to help Sirius without complications, if only Harry to get him to drink them.

Which, currently, he tended to refuse.

Harry returned from his regular lunchtime visit carrying an empty plate of casserole and a tankard still full of Restful Remedy.

"Again?" Kreacher asked, looking supremely unsurprised as Harry handed over the empty plate and plonked the full mug with its shimmery blue contents on the table in frustration.

"Hm." He sighed deeply. "I don't get it. He was fine yesterday! Well, pretty much. Kind of. Okay-ish. I thought he was getting better."

Kreacher busied himself washing the dishes, pulling a rickety wooden stool out from a cupboard so he was tall enough to stand in front of the enchanted sink. He clambered up to the top step and fiddled with the taps to fill the sink with the gentle sound of clean and running water.

Harry continued. "You think he doesn't like it because it makes him pee green?"

Kreacher sniffed. "The naughty young master likes to be contrary."

"I'm sure it can't be that."

The dishes in the sink seemed to rattle with extra-forced scrubbing. "The odd young Potter is just wasting his time."

Harry scoffed. "I'm not. Really. I mean…" His scrambled thoughts darted back to his original memories of Sirius: wild, manic, full of frenetic energy and force. "He's not supposed to be like this."

Elbow deep in soap suds, Kreacher nodded gravely towards the sink before him. "Naughty Master Sirius is always loving to disappoint."

Frowning at the tankard, Harry sighed before he tossed the blue shimmery liquid back and swallowed the potion himself. "Ugh. Here you go. Thanks."

Kreacher added the empty mug to his dirty pile and waited for Harry to keep talking. Small, domestic sounds of swishing water and clinking cutlery filled the silence while Harry contemplated.

He eventually continued. "It's not that though. I mean, he's _really_ supposed to be different.

"The Ancient and Noble House of Black is being a family of dignified heritage," Kreacher volunteered.

Harry startled. "What? Oh…yeah. Yeah, of course. But somehow I just expected Sirius to be, y'know, outdoors and running wild." Harry shrugged. "I mean, it's convenient for me that he's not going after Pettigrew and all, but it's _really odd_ that he's not."

Kreacher scrubbed thoughtfully. "Naughty Young Master is sneaking out of Mistress' good House all holidays, before."

"See? This isn't like him!"

"Hm."

Harry waited for Kreacher to say more, but he seemed engrossed in doing his dishes. Harry supposed, now he thought about it, that Kreacher wasn't particularly invested in Sirius, after all. Kreacher was probably only talking about Sirius because it was important to Harry. He wasn't sure how that made him feel.

Harry scraped his fingers roughly through his hair again, tugging a little before he gave up. "I guess I'll go do some more research," Harry exhaled loudly. "Effects of Azkaban. The Dementors too, I guess. I, uh, I'll pop off to Diagon Alley now, if you don't mind. Buy some more books. Is there anything I should pick up while I'm out there?"

"More cheese," Kreacher suggested, a single soapsud stuck on the end of his long nose. "Eggs. Fresh milk. Some more floor wax."

Harry scribbled the list down on the back of his hand and then nodded. "Awesome. I guess I'll be back shortly."

* * *

It was good that Harry's study and spell-work had accidentally advanced ahead of schedule since nothing else seemed to be following the plan.

Despite all of Harry's new books, and even a trip to a muggle library for help, Sirius remained determined to stay in Harry's luggage for the foreseeable future.

"That's okay," Harry found himself complaining to Kreacher as they shared another dinner together on Monday night. "I could cope with that. But I can't let him stay here until I get the Fidelius sorted, and that's not really working out yet."

"The odd young master is actually not too bad at spells," Kreacher offered.

Harry scratched the back of his neck thoughtfully. "Thanks? But I dunno…the Fidelius is something on a completely different level."

Kreacher muttered a phrase or two under his breath. Harry had grown used to ignoring his low mumbling, but just as he finished the last of his black tea a certain phrase caught his ear.

"Sorry, but what was that, Kreacher?"

"…The odd young Potter asks?"

Harry remembered that Kreacher never knew he was speaking out loud. "Er…what was on your mind just now?"

Kreacher scowled into his oversize mug and muttered darkly. "Kreacher is not wanting the naughty young master to stay when you leave. Kreacher is hoping the spell is not working so that he must go."

"Oh." Harry froze, pondered, and swiped the last of the warm dampness from his lips. "I…guess I see where you're coming from?

Harry pondered the practicalities of his plan for a minute. Sirius to stay in the house required the Fidelius; even if Harry got hold of the actual spell incantation, how long would it take for him to learn it? But what information existed that he hadn't yet looked for?

"Assuming I can get it to work, though," Harry tried optimistically, "do you reckon you could just feed him then?"

In the face of Harry's looming return to Hogwarts and Kreacher's apparent new sense of responsibility for Harry's, he had reluctantly agreed to bring food to Sirius daily. "If there is being no better idea," of course.

Harry took it as a success.

"I guess," said Harry pensively, looking at the remains of the meal before him. "I'd better get on with it then. But there's one more thing I suppose I could try." He furrowed his brow briefly before upending the dregs of his tea quickly. Then he peered into the shapeless blob of damp tea leaves that remained.

"I'm not very good at this divination stuff," Harry muttered, disheartened. "But this year looks like it'll be a right chaotic mess to me."

He groaned, pushing up from the chair with a huff. "I guess I should get some more of that research done quickly. Wish me luck."

_I think I'll need it._

* * *

In the interests of keeping Sirius safe, Harry passed the days in diligent research, trying and failing to discover any information on the Fidelius Charm. All of the books he could buy, all of his Pensieve memories failed to show him the practical, step-by-step instructions to casting the Charm.

The history of, the arithmancy of, famous examples of the Charm, they were all well-documented. The tragic story of the poor Potter couple and their ill-chosen Secret Keeper popped up in those books a lot. In the wake of the recent Sirius Black gossip in the Daily Prophet, it had Harry flipping through the books in a rather bad temper.

With reluctance, Harry finally flipped through his notes on mind magic, and stepped into the trunk for a conversation with Sirius.

The room itself was becoming a little bit stuffy. Warmer than Harry preferred, with the smell of dog and not enough fresh air. Harry stifled a grimace.

His godfather, as Padfoot, looked up with a sniff when Harry entered, and snuffled around Harry's ankles for a moment or two before he settled down again, apparently content in identifying his visitor and disappointed in the lack of food.

"Hey, Padfoot," Harry had to say. "It's not dinner time, so sorry to disturb you. I thought we could just…hang out…for once. Y'know. Get to know each other better. What do you think?"

Padfoot barked once.

"That's good?" Harry assumed hopefully. "You look like you've got a bit of energy, at any rate. Do you reckon we could chat?"

Padfoot's tail wagged.

"Sirius, can you change back, please? I need to talk to you."

Somewhat to Harry's dismay, Padfoot lay down on the ground and rested his head on his two front paws. It was very endearing, but not quite what Harry had in mind.

"I also need you to talk back. Y'know, so I can understand you. Is that okay?"

After a long silence, in which Padfoot scratched his right ear with his hind foot enthusiastically, Harry was relieved to finally see a response. His godfather's body stretched and lengthened, finally emerging into the form of a human wizard, but his body language was no longer quite so welcoming.

"Harry?" Sirius asked. "Are you Harry?"

"I'm Harry," said Harry patiently, having been through his process over the past few days. "I'm your godson. I'm James' boy."

"Harry!" Sirius beamed, "It's good to see you so big. I had a dream about you last night, and you look just like him!"

"Er, who?"

"Dream-Harry, of course," Sirius chuckled. Then the grin faded from his face like a wandlight failing. "But who are you really?"

Keeping what he hoped was a non-threatening smile on his face, Harry swallowed noisily, and made sure his wand was within easy reach. Just in case.

"I'm Harry," he repeated, the skin around his eyes feeling tight. "We've been through this, Sirius. I'm your godson."

Sirius edged back to stand against the solid wall, and scowled. "Everyone knows that dreams can't be trusted. What do you want from me? What are your plans?"

Slowly, Harry crouched down on the floor and tried to seem non-threatening. "I don't particularly want anything from you," Harry lied. "I've missed you for years, Padfoot!"

"I don't trust you!" Sirius snapped, his voice slowly rising higher and higher and making the hairs on Harry's arms stand up in discomfort. "I…I don't have anyone to miss me. Y-you must be lying! You're messing with me, aren't you! Wh-who are you, you imposter?"

Harry felt a pang in his chest, and barely noticed as he clawed at the front of his robes again. " _I'm_ around to miss you, Sirius," he tried, pleadingly. "I wouldn't," he swallowed again, "wouldn't 'mess' with you. Just relax, alright? It's just me. Harry. Harry Potter?"

Harry watched through damp eyes as he saw Sirius' pupil dance around the room. Looking for an escape, perhaps?

"An-and who's that then? What are you here for?"

"It's…I'm your godson. We spoke earlier? I brought you lunch, Padfoot, um, maybe you can remember? I…I just…Can't I just come and talk to you? I'm your godson, Sirius!"

Sirius glowered, crouched and hunched, looking as dog-like as possible with two hands and no tail. "Nobody ever just wants to come and talk to me. Friends all gone, family dead. I've spent twelve long years alone in Azkaban and the only visitor I ever had was the lawyer who came to tell me that my mother had died still hating me. How I might have 'seen the light' and fallen in with the Dark Lord, but betraying my good, pureblood friend was 'darkening the Black name'. Claimed it was worse than anything _he'd_ ever done. So how are you going to hurt me today, huh?"

"Goddammit Sirius, I'm trying to help you!" Harry exclaimed. But he must have shouted too loudly, because Sirius flinched back and whimpered. The anger drained from his body and all Harry was left looking at was an empty shell of a man with pain lines around his eyes and mouth. "Sorry, Sirius. I'm so sorry, Padfoot. I didn't mean…my mistake." Harry apologised. "Sirius? Are you listening? I…shhhhh, shhhh, it's okay."

Sirius shivered and keened in the corner for a while, and Harry sat on his knees a short distance away and worried.

"Sirius? Can you hear me? I'm sorry I lost my temper. I've been looking forward to spending time with you for years, and it felt like you didn't want me."

Sirius' shaking seemed to calm a little.

"I," Harry tried, "I'm Harry. Harry Potter. James and Lily's boy? You know me, you do! I brought you food recently?"

Sirius the man was a lot less stable than Padfoot the dog, Harry knew. But perhaps Sirius was…backsliding a little, now he was safe? That sounded like the kind of thing Dementor sufferers might do.

Either way, Harry's chest hurt and he couldn't help the feeling of rejection that stabbed him right through the heart.

"You knew me as a kid, but I've grown up now. I...people say I look like my dad, but with my mum's eyes. I...don't…don't you remember me, Sirius? Don't you want me?"

Sirius looked up with a lost look on his face, the plaintive tone in Harry's voice apparently doing some good. "Want you? Of course I want you. You're my godson, Pup. What's up with that?"

Mood changed, Sirius crept out of the corner where he had huddled to try and give Harry some comfort.

Harry spoke, relieved that he had real emotions to base his manipulations on. "I'm so tired, Sirius. And I'm doing everything wrong. I'm so out of my depth. I…So you do want me after all? I'm not a bother, despite everything?"

"My godkid could never be a bother." Sirius claimed, his confidence once again rising. "What can Uncle Padfoot do for you today?"

Harry's hands scraped through his hair and he finally managed to settle on the floor, crosslegged. "Oh, you know." He lied, "Nothing much."

This was such a bad idea. Harry almost gave it up, but…He needed this for his plans to work. Vanquishing Voldemort was a much bigger plan than just getting on with his godfather. Harry sank down into his Occlumency trance and slowed his breathing down carefully. Timing would be everything. From somewhat behind his back and hidden by his sleeve, Harry pointed his wand subtly at his godfather.

"I was hoping you could tell me what you knew about how to cast the Fidelius Charm," Harry admitted.

There was an awful void of silence that blossomed out from his godfather and seemed to dominate the whole room. Sirius' face darkened, and Harry found himself swallowing noisily. He promptly cast a silent Cheering Charm and crossed his fingers.

Sirius beamed. "I am _so happy_ that I can tell you all about the Fidelius Charm, Pup. You came to the right person."

Harry leaned forward eagerly.

They resettled themselves into comfortable positions. Harry breathed a silent sigh of relief that things seemed to be looking up.

Sirius chuckled in that gravelly voice of his. "The Charms master used to say that the Fidelius is an immensely complex spell involving the concealment of a secret inside a single, living soul. It required someone as clever as Dumbledore – or your parents, they would have managed it too," Sirius began, his face relaxed and cheerful, his body sprawling comfortably against the end of the bed. "Dumbledore and James – he was a great man, your father – spent hours together talking about it. Your mother – have I told you how absolutely brilliant she was, your mother? – you mother got all technical about it, even while she was holding you on her lap. She was all, 'But how does it relate to the Anthropian Principle?' And, 'What are the theoretical limits of size?' 'What variations exist on the Fidelius Charm and what different types of Secrets have people tested it on?' She'd be sitting in the kitchen talking to Albus, feeding you up, and hexing me down on the carpet, all at once." Sirius paused. "It was all in good fun, the hexes never hurt me. I'd forgotten about those times."

Harry watched as the weight seemed to drop from Sirius' shoulders and suddenly he looked ten years younger.

"That's fascinating," said Harry, honestly intrigued. "But back to the topic. Would you mind very much if you gave me those memories so I could have a look at them in the Pensieve?"

"Of course you can, Pup! I…" A slightly confused frown crept its way onto Sirius' face. "I don't know why I shouldn't. I can trust you, of course, right Harry?"

It was probably Sirius' paranoia fighting the Cheering Charm, but Harry still felt guilty at manipulating his godfather when he plastered on his smile. "Like I can trust you, I imagine," Harry blustered, his fingers clutched tightly around the base of his wand, not wanting to let it go. "Of course you can trust me Sirius. I'm your godson, after all."

Hiding his great reluctance, Harry handed over his wand and a handful of phials. Sirius eyed them all cheerfully as they clinked merrily in his hands and he grappled with the small, glimmering vessels. Then, smiling all the while, Sirius plucked memory after memory out of his head, tapping the silvery substances into the tiny bottles. When the sixth phial filled, Harry's eyebrows rose, and he found himself passing over another handful from within his mokeskin pouch.

"There you go, Pup. If you want to follow your parents' steps and research the Charm, everything's in there." Harry accepted his wand and the precious phials back with relief, but Sirius went on. "But if you really want to follow your dad's footsteps, what you need are these two." Sirius waggled two phials up in the air with a grin, before surrendering them to Harry's outstretched hands.

"What are these?" Harry wondered, holding them up to the light.

"Our greatest secret," Sirius grinned again, winking at Harry roguishly. "We made Unbreakable Vows never to reveal this secret to the Authorities. True friendship, true freedom, the Marauders against the Man. We stuck it to him good, Harry."

"Oh," said Harry. "Well, isn't that nice."

"Those were the days," Sirius slouched backwards, smiling vacantly. "And Prongs Junior is following in our steps! What d'ya think you'll be, kiddo? A stag like your dad?"

"Animagi," Harry gasped, as it all fell into place. No wonder Lupin had never told anyone that Sirius was an Animagus if they had all made an Unbreakable Vow. It answered so many questions he'd never known he had. "I…" Harry thought. "I don't know. What's the first step?"

"The mandrake leaf," Sirius smiled. "Sweet Merlin but what a great few weeks. Stick it to the root of your mouth with a _temporary_ Sticking Charm, Pup – I can't emphasise that enough – and don't swallow it, or you'll die a particularly grisly death. Terribly poisonous to digest, but just the juices? Fabulously titillating. You'll be having nightmares and hallucinations every night for one lunar month. It'll put you in touch with your animalistic side." He waggled his eyebrows. "All the hard yards come after that."

"Awesome," Harry breathed, feeling like he actually was thirteen again. "Can you help me with that, Sirius? I want to try."

Sirius smirked. "What are godfathers for? I've put a bunch of stuff in the memories, but you be sure to come back once you watched them and I'll answer any questions."

A short time later, Harry emerged from his Pensieve with a smile. The Animagus thing sounded brilliant; he would buy a fresh mandrake leaf from the Apothecary tomorrow if they sold them, and get started as soon as the new moon rolled around. And he'd have to practice with the Fidelius too, but it looked like he finally had everything he needed for that. Now he just needed to wait for the Ministry watchers to get bored and leave, and Harry could effectively make Grimmauld Place disappear.


	13. Overconfidence and Apologies

Even with all his panicked Fidelius practice, or possibly because of it, the last Saturday before school rolled around rapidly and the final appointment of the holidays arrived. Just after nine in the morning, Harry found himself fussing around uselessly in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place to Kreacher's unimpressed displeasure.

"Harry Potter is going to meet his friends and be thirteen," the elf scolded. "Kreacher is keeping the house, just as Kreacher is been doing for the last twelve years. If bad…If Master Sirius is emerging from his box, like he is _never been doing before_ , then Kreacher is…quickly knocking him back inside and locking the lid so that nothing is changing. The bad wizards outside is not seeing or hearing anything."

"Thanks, I think," said Harry, and Apparated out. Finally, he thought, that little voice in the back of his head that thrummed _almost Hogwarts, almost Hogwarts_ would be satisfied.

Harry walked into Flourish and Blotts ten minutes later, looking around for Hermione.

The bookshop was very full of people: students, parents, younger siblings not yet ready to receive their letters but desperately wanting to.

"Hermione?" Harry tried calling, but the babble of the crowd was too loud for his voice to carry over.

Shouldering bravely on, Harry forced his way past the piles of first-year textbooks on the front tables, and pushed his way through to the shelves for electives. In the first niche of bookshelves, a very serious Ravenclaw student was standing in front of the Runes section, thumbing thoughtfully through a massively thick tome.

No Hermione.

Harry turned in the direction of the Arithmancy shelves, and sighed as he once again started to push through heat and humid scent of the throng.

This time he guessed right. A very familiar head of bushy hair, frizzing out in unmanageable volume, was nodding thoughtfully over a book. Standing patiently and looking not a little lost beside her, her parents stood holding an ever-growing stack of books. Harry watched as his friend added another pile to the heap her father balanced.

"Hermione," Harry called again, and this time her head jerked around and she saw him. "Wow, you look like you've been in the sun."

"Harry!" Hermione smiled, "Long time no see. France was lovely. You're early, I thought you'd still be another half hour. Weren't you coming from Little Whinging?"

"Yes," lied Harry. "But I overestimated traffic. Good morning Mr Granger, Mrs Granger. Lovely to see you again."

Hermione's father nodded politely Harry's way, his hands full of textbooks.

Hermione's mother spoke. "Nice to meet you again, Harry, wasn't it? I hope you've had a good holiday yourself? Did you come here on your own?"

Harry nodded. "Sorry about that, Hermione said you were looking forward to meeting my relatives, but they couldn't make it in today. They're not really comfortable with all the crowds, so they gave it a miss."

"Oh, what a shame. We were so looking forward to meeting your aunt and uncle," Mrs Granger shook her head. "Perhaps another time. Does this mean you have already bought all your textbooks then, Harry?"

"I have," he admitted sheepishly. "More time to read up before school starts." He shot a look Hermione's way. "I guess you'll be doing the same when you get home?"

Hermione huffed. "France was amazing, and it made a huge difference to my summer homework, but I do wish there had been a way to order my textbooks overseas. We had already left by the time the booklist came out, did you know? I had to spend weeks of my holiday knowing I was wasting my time."

She was still the same Hermione.

"And I see you're making up for lost time. What are all these books you've picked up here?"

"Well, I decided to look at a lot of electives," Hermione explained. "And I mailed the Professors while I was away to ask for some further, recommended reading. That's where I got – How did you like your birthday present, Harry? Have you read it yet?"

"I have," Harry grinned. "It was pretty heavy going. It was kind of confusing until I realised that it should be read in conjunction with Spellman's Syllabary, but once I worked that out it made much more sense."

Hermione looked smug. "I saw you researching Runes last year, and wanted to find you a book you hadn't read yet."

"It was really thoughtful, "Harry told her. "I'll have to put some real planning into getting your own present just ri– _urgh._ " Someone in the crowd behind him bashed him with an elbow. "But perhaps if you're done here, we could get out of the shop? It's seeming a little stuffy in here."

The four of them waded their way through the crowd towards the till, eventually finding their way outside where they stood, blinking in the sunlight.

"Where to now?" Harry asked.

Hermione shrugged. "I'm not too sure. I only had my textbooks to go. If you've done all your shopping, I guess we can try for some ice cream?"

Mrs Granger interrupted her daughter, "Hermione, your father and I would like to have a short rest, so we might leave you with Harry to shop." She dug around in her purse for a moment, before retrieving a white envelope. "We were planning on mentioning this earlier, but your birthday is coming up, so we thought we could let you buy your present now instead. Dan and I have had this converted in _gallons_ for you, how about you and Harry have a browse and pick our something you'd like?"

Hermione accepted the heavy envelopes calmly. She didn't really look too surprised. "Thanks Mum, thanks Dad. It's 'galleons', though; seventeen sickles or 493 knuts to the galleon."

"If you say so," grunted Mr Granger, who reached out to pat her on the head. "You always know what you're on about, Hermione. We'll just leave you with your young friend then and have a nice sit down back at the pub."

Soon left on their own, Harry turned to Hermione, already knowing what she would say. "So what's the plan then? Where shall we go?"

"I was thinking of an owl," Hermione confided. "I mean, Ron's family has Errol, Neville's grandmother has Magnus, and the Hogwarts owlery is fine during the year, so I can normally make do. But while I was in France there was no good way to contact anybody myself, and I think it's the right time."

Harry relaxed at the familiar tone of conversation. She'd something almost exactly the same just before she came back with Crookshanks last timeline.

"That, I suppose then?" Harry pointed directly at the pet shop that stood a few stores down. There's a magical-creature shop just over here." Checking carefully over his should, Harry began stepping towards the pet shop with Crookshanks in it only after he made sure Hermione was following him. "I never asked before, but are your parents okay with you just buying yourself a pet?"

"Oh, they'll be fine," Hermione dismissed. "They trust my judgement."

Harry really couldn't say that he was any kind of expert, but did normal parents let their children buy animals that way? Even the Dursleys had never let Dudley get a puppy, despite the way they usually bought anything their son desired. But what did Harry know? He pushed the thought aside as they moved down the street.

Soon they stepped inside the _Magical Menagerie_. It wasn't nearly as crowded as the bookshop, but the heat was still intense, and warm animal smells – something wild with just a hint of mulch and urine – and dandruff drifted casually around the store.

In his usual place, in the same wooden seat he'd spotted Crookshanks in every time he wandered past the shop, Harry spied the great orange beast out of the corner of his eye, and tried to nod in his direction in a significant kind of way.

 _This is her!_ He tried to signal with his eyes. _This is the one you've been waiting for._

The orange half-Kneazle blinked once at Harry slowly, and Harry hoped the message had got through. Perhaps Crookshanks would arrange some kind of introduction with Hermione himself?

Then he turned toward Hermione. "I'll just be off over here then," he said, waving randomly to his left. "Looking at the…ah, the lizards. Let me know if you want an opinion."

She waggled her fingers goodbye in his direction as Hermione strode towards the shop keeper. "Excuse me," she called, while Harry turned to the animals.

As a curious Crookshanks rose to his feet, sending Harry a sceptical glare but slowly stalking majestically towards Hermione's back anyway, Harry wandered slowly over to the wall, where long shelves of glass enclosures sat along the wall.

Harry walked up to a glass cage around eye height, that held a very impressive looking…bearded dragon, according to the sign.

"Hello then," Harry whispered, talking to the cage on the wall in front of him. "Do you speak snake?"

A small fuss down by near his ankles showed the baby snakes spring into alertness, but the lizard in front of him didn't make a move.

"I don't mean to bother you," Harry continued, hissing quietly, "but I've been wondering for a while if Parseltongue is a reptile thing, or just for snakes."

He ignored the shrill cries of the snakelets below. "Would you know about dragons then? It's not just curiosity, but more of a personal inquiry."

The lizard blinked at him slowly, then closed its eyes.

"Ah…I can't tell if you _can't_ or you _won't._ I guess not then? Sorry, I'll just move over here." He felt a bit stupid hissing to a lizard that was ignoring him, so he hunkered down.

"What about you guys? What kind of snakes are you?"

"Boomslang."

"Python."

"Poisonous adder," a cacophony of voices replied, and Harry noticed that he had gained the attention of every snake tank in the vicinity. He peeked over his shoulder. Fortunately for him, the humans were busy. Crookshanks had launched himself onto Hermione's shoulder and had tangled his claws in her hair. Ignoring the fuss, and the shopkeeper who was apologising profusely for Crookshanks' behaviour, Harry smiled. He looked back up at the lizard cages. None deigned to glance his way.

"I can't tell if it's a personality thing or not," Harry mumbled, and returned his attentions to the serpents in front of him. "How's life treating you in the pet shop then?"

"Too small."

"Too hot."

"Too sleepy," the voices hissed back. Harry looked for the little snake that complained about her energy.

"Can the pet shop fix that one, do you think?"

She hissed. "I'm a genuine British adder, used to the weather of the British Isles. Don't treat me like one of these foreign imports. I'm adapted for normal weather, not this false heating. It affects my moods."

Harry pursed his lips. "I guess that makes sense."

"Are you going to take me?" she inquired tartly. "You don't seem like an idiot. I could do worse."

"I'm sorry," Harry apologised. "I'm here to pick up an orange half-Kneazle with a friend today."

"That seems strangely specific."

"Well, yes," Harry admitted sheepishly. "If it all goes well then Hermione will fall in love with his personable face and magnificent fluffiness. I happen to know that they will make each other very happy."

"So you've got it all planned out, I see," his little friend hissed. "The ginger one is special, but humans are blind to it. It's because they can't taste properly with their tongues, I always thought. That's your friend over there then is it? The bushy-head?"

Harry snickered. "I couldn't call her that to her face, but you'd be right."

The little snake tilted her head sideways, her golden eyes fixed on Harry's green ones, and looked positively charming in her confidence. "The one buying the good-looking Eagle Owl now?"

"Probab– _what_?" Harry choked, and had to spend a moment thumping his chest with a fist in order to catch his breath again. "Excuse me. Sorry, got to go."

Harry straightened stiffly, and rose to dart over to his friend. She was holding in her arms a ginormous grey owl. Crookshanks, to Harry's dismay, was now sulking around on the floor and twining furiously between the shop keeper's ankles.

"Hermione! How are you going over here?"

"Harry," she beamed. "Isn't this the most beautiful owl you ever saw? Their feathers are useful as potions ingredients, but just look at this face! I bet you've never seen such a dignified creature."

Harry spared a quick look at the creature in the cage she held – the owl was quite nice, but didn't hold a candle to Hedwig – "This is a beautiful owl Hermione, but I thought you were going to go for Croo– the cat-Kneazle."

She grimaced. "Oh, isn't he just a dear? He's a half-Kneazle, and no one seems to want him. I thought about it, I was really tempted, but in the end the utility of an owl is just so much more necessary. I'll be able to post mail from wherever I want now, you see. Even on holidays."

She looked a little pink as she said it, and Harry decided that she was incredibly embarrassed at giving him his birthday present late. He scratched his head. "Should I buy you the cat then as an early birthday present from me?"

Hermione's eyes grew large for a moment, but then she shook her head. "Now that's a lovely thought, but I'm going to have to dedicate myself to Artemis now. It wouldn't be fair to get two pets at once, and Artemis can come overseas with me too. A cat would just get left behind."

"Oh." Harry was stumped.

The shop keeper, a friendly, round-faced witch looked back and forth between them in interest.

"Are you interested in Crookshanks, sir?" she asked. "His face is a little squashed and his legs a little bent, and he's certainly rather large, but very trustworthy, you know."

"I'm sure," Harry's mouth said, while his mind spun furiously. Crookshanks probably wasn't necessary for his planned future, but he had been fabulous about Wormtail. It felt a little like he owed the half-Kneazle a debt of gratitude.

"He's very intelligent," the witch continued. "He chased off a thief here once. He might be a bit particular about people, but he's been looking at you all week."

Harry's eyebrows rose. "But I haven't been in here all week."

"Every time you pass the shop he stares at you," the witch admitted. "Now don't tell him I told you, but he only ever ignores you when you're looking his way."

Harry turned to stare at Crookshanks, who was captivated by something outside the window. "You don't say."

"Perhaps a discount?" The witch pushed.

Harry made up his mind. "I could never accept a discount for Crookshanks," Harry stated. "He's worth every galleon I'll spend. Excuse me a moment while I discuss it with him."

Hermione and the shop witch looked on in bemusement as Harry leaned over and spoke to the creature on the floor.

"Would you mind a quiet word?" Harry asked the half-Kneazle politely, and to his relief – after a long pause, which clearly indicated the cat felt in no way _obliged_ to do so, Crookshanks stood and strode sedately to a quiet corner of the shop.

Nobly ignoring the strange looks behind him, Harry followed the cat over, and then he had to do a little shuffle around to the side. Crookshanks had settled with his very stern back facing Harry, making it very obvious that Harry had to all the work for this conversation. Inching left, Harry finally arrived at the front of the creature, and crouched down earnestly a little distance away.

"Hey, Crookshanks," Harry crouched down and spoke softly. "It looks I was wrong, and my awesome friend chose another animal. Sorry about that. I really thought it would work out."

Crookshanks shuffled his front paws around, coincidentally turning away from Harry. His extraordinarily fluffy tail twitched a little bit, stopping the wizard creep closer. Harry continued awkwardly. "I hope you weren't embarrassed. It was completely my mistake. I was completely sure…I'm sorry. I was obviously overconfident."

To Harry's mild surprise, Crookshanks didn't twitch or sniff or cough up a hairball – or any of the other things that Harry had half been expecting. One ear, however, was pointed directly at Harry.

He continued. "I was thinking…ah…How do you feel about coming home with me instead? It'll be…different."

Crookshanks didn't turn around, but then both ears flicked back in interest.

"I have a bit of a complicated life right now," Harry admitted, glad Hermione was standing too far away to hear. "It's going to be one heck of a year, and I could use your help if you'd be willing."

Crookshanks shifted uncomfortably on the floor.

"You'll love Hogwarts, there's tons of space and warm fires and good people. I, uh, spend a few weeks of each year in a cupboard, which won't be so nice for you. That's why I haven't had any pets before. But I'm sure we can work something out. It'd be nice to have someone to talk to. I'm keeping a lot of secrets, and I guess you'd be pretty good for me."

The squashed, grumpy-looking face finally turned, and eyed Harry up with an evaluating gaze. Harry felt absurdly pressured to keep talking, but really, there wasn't much else he could admit to the half-Kneazle in public. He looked at Crookshanks hopefully.

"It was never that I didn't want you. I just thought you could do better than me. But I'd be pleased if you'd have me?"

Looking ever so long-suffering, Crookshanks slowly got to his feet and came forward to investigate Harry where he sat. Harry waited in silence as the cat snuffled around his fingers. The pressure was surprising.

With no change of expression or other indication of interest, Crookshanks suddenly bunched up his legs and leapt up towards Harry's head. He flinched. A heavy weight settled in across his shoulders, and Harry opened his eyes to find his peripheral vision full of fuzzy ginger hair, and the gentlest of claw pricks digging into his shoulders. A long wispy tail waved gently across half his vision.

"Thanks, I think," Harry said, and slowly stood up, the half-Kneazle still balanced behind his neck.

Hermione looked ecstatic and the sales-witch relieved as Harry made his way to the counter to pay.

* * *

"Where to now?" Hermione asked, once everything was exchanged.

Harry shot Hermione a look. "Neville and Ron, I think?"

Hermione nibbled on her lip. "I don't want to drag Artemis and Crookshanks around the Alley for hours, but Neville never did get back to me about where we should meet. Do you think –"

" _Quality Quidditch Supplies_ it is," Harry nodded firmly.

"What makes you say that?"

Harry shot her a sideways glance. "Did you know that there is a new broomstick out in the market? The Firebolt has the best aerodynamic engineering of any professional broomstick on the market? It's got the best acceleration of any broom that's ever been tested, and its safety features have stood up to the most rigorous testing ever performed on a broomstick, just to prove it could handle it?"

"I see," said Hermione. "I should have known."

Harry grinned. "So I thought we could obsess manfully over the broomsticks for half an hour or so, then cool down and catch up over some ice cream? Then I guess we can walk you back to meet your parents for lunch."

"A nice quiet day, in other words?" Hermione raised an eyebrow cynically, but the small smile on her face told Harry they would enjoy the day.


	14. Manners and Madness

Harry almost felt like a child again as he and Hermione wandered Diagon Alley in the bright London sunshine with all the familiar excitement of back-to-school shopping. Carefree days like this were surprisingly hard for him to come by.

Just as Harry had supposed, Quality Quidditch Supplies was surrounded by a swarm of people – mostly students – who were buzzing and milling about in enthusiasm.

"You might have been right," Hermione acknowledge to Harry with a roll of her eyes. "They'll be at the front, do you think?"

Harry reached up his right hand to let Crookshanks, lounging on Harry's shoulders like the aristocrat he was, critically sniff at his fingers before he deigned to let Harry gently scratch his fuzzy, ginger forehead. "I reckon so. Let's have a look."

Grabbing Hermione's free hand, the one not carrying her new owl, Artemis, Harry began to duck and weave through the crowd. Hermione was dragged along in his wake. Crookshanks dug his claws just a little more firmly into Harry's shoulders as they stepped towards the crush.

"Harry!" Hermione squeaked, but he couldn't stop now. Sometimes people recognised him and backed away to give him space, but in general, getting to the prime spot in front of the window took concentration and effort.

"Come on, Hermione," Harry called over his shoulder. "Watch out for the owl cage, won't you?"

Hermione, meanwhile, settled down to mind her new pet and let Harry haul her onwards. There was a suspiciously tall redhead near the front of the throng. Harry aimed straight for the head he hoped belonged to the right Weasley.

He forced his way through the surging people, ducking under raised arms and around shoulders, breathing in the humid body heat, the smell of fried food and – he swore that was broom polish – to step over many shuffling feet and finally reach the front.

The weight on his own shoulders seemed to help more than hinder, as more than one wizard turned to complain about Harry's pushing only to have Crookshanks, stately in comfort and dignity, hiss and bristle in their faces.

"Harry!" Ron greeted, as Hermione and Harry finally pushed through the crowds at the quidditch window display. "Oh, and Hermione too. Hey, Harry, did you see this yet? Whaddya think? Isn't it _beautiful_?"

Ron turned in fascination to look back into the shop window, as if even Harry Potter with all his fame and desirability could only distract from the Firebolt for mere moments.

"Did you know that it's the first broom on the market with goblin-made ironwork?" Ron continued, his nose pressed up against the glass as if he could get close enough to lick the broom if he tried. "Look at those footrests. They're supposed to be primed for premium stability – even in high winds. Wood says that they're designed to give you extra leverage in turning too. Just imagine, Harry, if only I could try one."

Neville popped his head over Ron's shoulder and waved cheerfully at the two newest arrivals.

"Hi, Harry, Hermione," he said, just as Ron mumbled, "The acceleration is to die for."

Neville continued. "How's the shopping been? Gran's gone to look at _Willoughby's Warp and Weft_ – something about new knitting needles. She figured we could mind ourselves here. Are you interested in the Firebolt too?"

Hermione shrugged politely while Harry nodded and grinned. "Well, yeah!"

Neville continued. "Did you know that it comes with your choice of tail twigs? You can choose young birch, if you want more power in ascents and descents, and twenty-year-old hazel if you prefer really, r _eally_ fine responses in your steering?"

Harry finally let go of Hermione's hand to shuffle forward and chat to Ron while Hermione stepped closer to Neville, to be heard over the crowd.

"What happened to my anti-flying league friend?" Harry heard Hermione ask, her eyebrow quirked in that familiar way. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hermione looking up at Neville's face in curiosity. When had Neville grown so much anyway? He was almost as tall as Ron, now.

Neville shrugged one shoulder in that awkward way of his. "The herbologist in me is naturally interested in what plants can do. It has to be young birch, because that's when they're still growing rapidly and, kind of, really want to be taller and get higher. I reckon the twigs have to be harvested with golden sickles and caught without touching the ground too, but no one I've asked either knows, or will tell me."

"Huh," Harry heard Hermione say behind him, but then the crowd was pushing and surging a little more strongly and they had to gracefully give up their prime spot in the window.

"How much of your shopping have you done?" Neville managed to ask Harry as they got shuffled forcefully towards the edge of the crowd. "I got my books before we planned to meet, and Ron says Mrs Weasley is getting his school stuff now."

Harry and Hermione met each other's eyes and grinned.

"Same-ish," Harry admitted. "I'm finished my shopping, and I think Hermione is too, right?"

"About right," she smiled.

"So why don't we take a break over some ice cream, and then maybe _Gambol and Jape's_? _Flourish and Blotts_? Carkitt Market?"

* * *

It was almost three o'clock when Harry finally saw the last of his friends off from Diagon Alley.

They'd dawdled around all the shops that looked interesting, although Harry himself had visited all of them alone between his two timelines.

Ron led the group, striding quickly, somehow having never been left alone to explore the whole alley before, and Harry watched from behind as his bright hair bobbed and weaved through the crowds of people excitedly. Ron walked with a long, almost loping stride; he dashed into shop doors and up to window displays with all the grace and ease of a wizard-born pureblood. Harry was bemused to see the boy, as poor as he was with the patched elbows and let-down hem, nevertheless stride into places that Harry and Hermione would step into sensitively. Despite their lack of money, Harry figured, the established Weasley family never had to worry about belonging in the wizarding world, or being chased out of shops.

Harry watched from a few feet back as Ron's skinny ankles stuck out from under his too-short blue robes, and Harry decided he should buy his best mate a new robe for his birthday. He figured Ron would love it, as long as he phrased it right.

As the shadow of another doorway fell over their heads, Neville too strode into the wizarding space with just as much confidence if not quite so much grace. Unlike Ron, _he_ was dressed in fine, unremarkable clothes. His boots were good dragon leather, if a little scuffed at the edges, and Neville's open-front, dark maroon-ish cloak revealed robes of warm brown and gold. Now he'd gained confidence, Harry figured, Neville looked like a young wizarding master – just like Sirius might have, back in the day. All he needed was to finish growing into his feet and the worst of his clumsiness might be improved too.

Harry tried to throw the thoughtful observations out of his head; he was a teenager today, thirteen, out with his best mates. He pretty much managed to let go of the bitterness and just enjoy the day, most of the time. It helped that he had to keep an eye out for Hermione too.

Behind the two boys, his best female friend managed the crowds with sheer grit and determination.

Her auburn curls frizzed up more and more as she lugged Artemis' cage around all the shops, occasionally stumbling when the thing swung between her legs. Pausing where she could, to rest the cage on the floor, catch her breath, wipe and lightest sheen of sweat of her forehead, Harry suddenly realised she was shorter than she'd been before.

It wasn't just Neville she had to look up to now; Hermione's head had somehow shrunk to reach only Harry's ears.

In the dim coolness of _Gardenia's Garden Plants_ , while Neville cooed over babies' breath and mumbleferns, and haggled with the storekeep over mulch prices, Harry blinked, remeasured. Yup, she was shorter – or rather, Harry must have grown too. Between the onslaught of pedestrians and keeping Ron and Neville in his sights, Harry short a measuring glance down at his own ankles, to see…yes, he needed to let out the hems too. Perhaps buy another robe or two for Hogwarts.

Then Hermione picked up Artemis' cage with an, "Oomph," and lurched out the shop door to catch up with the boys racing ahead.

Near his ear, Crookshanks mewled an instruction to hurry up. His whiskers tickled Harry's skin, and he suppressed a shiver.

Harry followed his friends.

Back in the sun and the crush and the busy, Harry hovered close enough to catch his smaller friend every time she lurched, and her big hazel eyes looked up at him gratefully every time he had to grab her elbow.

* * *

It had taken a few hours, but over the course of the afternoon Harry had discovered that Crookshanks despised sugar quills and ice cream, but had a not-so-secret craving for ice-mice and blood pops. The half-Kneazle also seemed to loathe cockroach clusters and pepper imps, to Harry's personal relief. There was just something off about scurrying cockroach-like sweets, and Crookshanks was intimidating enough before he breathed fire and smoke.

His new pet…companion, also liked a number of plants, including baby snarglaluffs, and Harry found himself muttering instructions to the Kneazle as he followed his friends around Diagon.

"Only the small ones, you hear me? Only tease the little ones in small pots," Harry demanded of Crookshanks while Hermione went to buy some new quills and Neville, a pile of parchment for note-taking.

"The big ones can eat you."

Crookshanks' tail twitched dubiously.

"I'm not kidding! The big ones can eat _me_ , they're that big. They're not slow, either. And…um…" Harry lowered his voice. "We've got some at Gri…where I'm taking you later. You can't go into the back garden till I've dealt with them, you hear me? Just hold out till Hogwarts and I'll fix it all up next holidays. I promise, okay? So just hold on till then, yeah?"

Crookshanks' squashed face looked entirely unimpressed, but Harry figured he was smarter than he let on.

"Just…check with me first, alright? Promise?"

Crookshanks mewled right into Harry's ear.

"Ow! Okay, thanks. Thank Merlin." He caught up with Hermione as she tripped over a doorstep and Artemis clacked her beak.

* * *

After a very relaxing and exceptionally teenage kind of day, the adults swooped in mid-afternoon and took over the plans.

Either because they had finally had their fill of hearty food, raucous noise and wizard logic in the Leaky Cauldron, or possibly because the clouds were rolling and the sunlight was going away, Mr and Mrs Granger arrived first to ferry Hermione off elegantly. The Leaky Cauldron might be a little dingy and casual – in the finest of wizardly ways – for a pair of muggle dentists, Harry supposed. They cooed over the new owl with all due diligence, smiled politely at Hermione's friends, and Hermione finally gave into their hints. Artemis looked at the muggles doubtfully and hooted and clucked her beak cynically as Hermione lugged her cage off in the direction of muggle London.

Owls, Harry thought with a familiar sting of fond regret. The good ones always did have strong personalities.

The boys only made it back in front of the Firebolt display for twenty minutes before Mrs Weasley popped out of the crowd and collected Ron and Neville shortly thereafter.

"Gah! Mum!" Ron made the bravest of attempts. "Just ten more minutes? Five? To spend with Harry? Look, even Neville's keen to stay a little longer? It's got the newest enchantments available!"

But no, it wasn't to be.

Harry wasn't quite sure what to think of Neville sleeping over at Ron's house again these holidays. It felt like the shy boy was moving in on Harry's territory. But that was a silly, selfish thought, and Harry told himself firmly that he was glad that Ron was making good friends with people other than Harry, and that Neville had some support other than his stern grandmother.

Mrs Weasley would look after them both very well, Harry told himself. And he was far too busy to visit the Weasley's himself – Sirius was waiting for him, after all.

He had Sirius _and_ Kreacher waiting at Grimmauld Place for him, and now Crookshanks was also on his side, the latter of whom was getting heavy on his shoulders and beating a rhythmic pattern on Harry chest with his tail.

"Guess it's time," Harry muttered.

He stepped into the dark shadow of an empty corner, pulled his dark blue cloak out of his mokeskin pouch, and slowly put it on, working around Crookshanks' presence on his shoulder very carefully.

"Sorry about the indignity," he apologised to the great cat as he fastened the hooks together. "I mentioned before that my life is a little bit complicated. I'm currently living away from home, trying to stay under the radar of the Ministry while living in hiding with the escaped convict Sirius Black."

Crookshanks pricked the sensitive skin around Harry's neck none-to-gently with his claws. Harry hurried on with his explanation. "He's absolutely innocent, I assure you. But the Ministry will kill him on sight, so we need to get there unnoticed. If you don't mind just a few minutes of…excuse me…"

Harry carefully flipped the generous hood up over his face, leaving just enough space for Crookshanks to peer out of, his orange head wedged somewhat firmly under Harry's jawbone. Swallowing carefully, Harry adjusted his posture and then stepped back out into the throng of people to walk towards the Apparition point.

He continued muttering to the cat under his breath. "He's my godfather, the last family I have left, so I hope you'll really like him, but I'll leave that up to you. He's a little mad," he lowered his voice more, "Azkaban damaged him more than I thought, but hopefully between the three of us, he'll slowly come around.

"I mean," Harry kept on, "he's worse than I expected he would be. For a couple of reasons, I had other expectations and I seem to have miscalculated, but I'm sure he'll be lots better by the end of the year. Good food and proper shelter and company will only help him more. That's where you and I come in, if you're willing."

The heavy weight of Crookshanks' tail thudded once, curiously, across Harry's chest before the fluff swept up Harry's neck, tickling his skin again and causing the cloak to billow awkwardly. "Oh. There's also a house-elf, called Kreacher. He's also mad. After Sirius' mum died, he was left alone in an old house with a whole lot of cursed objects for ten years, and an instruction he couldn't obey. He ran out of food after a month or so, and had to survive on tree roots and the occasional pixie or spider. I've sorted out some of that, so he's on the mend now, but he and Sirius don't talk."

Concealed underneath his cloak, Crookshanks' tail beat against Harry's chest again, and Harry's cloak flapped a little again with the movement. To his bemusement, the crowds were streaming past him rapidly, a small bubble of space surrounding him as he walked. The reason occurred to him almost immediately: dark cloak, muttering constantly under his breath, something moving over his chest, and the huge cat still sitting on his shoulders underneath the fabric – Harry realised he looked like some kind of old, crazy hunchback dark wizard.

He snickered to himself a little.

"Of course, there's at least a small part of me that's probably mad as well. Even I have to admit that some of my decisions would look a little suspect if I didn't know my reasoning."

Pausing, Harry took stock of his current social environment. "Huh. I'd never thought about my life in quite those terms before. I...It's all a little more positive than it sounds, I assure you."

A young mother pulling her two children shot him a wary look as she dragged her offspring out of Harry's way. Harry smirked a little as his shoulders vibrated with the deep rumble of Crookshanks' purr.

"Now, I think you're probably going to hate this, but can you try not to hurt me too much? I'm going to Apparate us both back, and it should be the one and only time you ever have to go through this, I think."

The beast on his shoulder twitched his tail nervously again, and dug his claws deeply into Harry's shoulders.

Harry pulled out his wand. "I'll explain everything else when we get there, I promise, but first we'll have to get through this in five, four, three, two…"

The strange figure disappeared from the Alley with a quiet pop.

* * *

Harry and his indignant passenger arrived in the familiar kitchen of Grimmauld Place with a yowl. Kreacher, busy in the corner, looked up in curiosity as Harry and his cloak promptly screeched and billowed.

Harry himself flinched violently as Crookshanks' claws dug deeply, very deeply, into his skin. The uncomfortable cat squalled right in Harry's ear and scrabbled to stand up. Unfortunately for them both, Harry's cloak was fastened directly over Crookshanks' body, and neither of them could move.

Harry himself hissed in pain as Crookshanks' desperate clawing gouged deep stripes into his skin.

"I know, I know – ow! My collarbone! Wait, please – " Harry struggled with the fastener around his neck. "Don't pull it! Just wait a – not the neck, not the neck! Ah!" With an audible pop, the button on the cloak came free and the heavy fabric dropped to the floor, revealing a very enraged half-Kneazle and Harry's pale neck striped with blood.

Crookshanks scrambled to the floor with an indignant hiss, fur raised and puffed up threateningly. He stalked away from Harry across the kitchen, before settling sullenly in front of the fire and steadfastly ignoring the small sounds of frustration made by the wizard behind him.

"Finally," Harry managed, as he shook his shoulders free, and then hissed himself as he ran his hand over the sides of his neck and upper shoulders. "Ow! Crookshanks, I'm bleeding!"

He looked angrily from Crookshanks' unconcerned back, to Kreacher's leering face. "Oh, you. Stop sniggering, it really…" Harry scowled.

Kreacher's laugh cut off.

After a moment, Harry sighed. "Oh, okay, fine. Laugh if you want to. _Episkey. Episkey._ " Kreacher cackled silently where he stood, before going suddenly silent once more and stepping rapidly over to the oven door.

" _Episkey,_ " Harry continued, before leaping forward in concern. "Stop Kreacher! Remember what we said about punishments?"

The sinister-looking face turned towards him, distended in regret. "Kreacher is laughing at the young Master," the little house elf croaked. "Kreacher is a bad –"

"Stop!" called Harry, and Kreacher froze just before he slammed the door down on his fingers. "It's okay," Harry continued. "I deserved it. Trying to Apparate with a cat-Kneazle on my shoulders, I should have known what would happen."

"But Kreacher – "

"It's okay," Harry repeated. "Crookshanks had the right of it. If someone had done that to me unexpectedly I would have done my best to get away from them too. I've known Crookshanks before, for goodness sake. I should have known better. I was dumb, I admit it. If it's funny, it's funny."

From his place in front of the fire, Crookshanks methodically groomed his outraged fur. Despite his stern, unyielding spine, however, Harry and Kreacher both noticed that his ears were flicked back in curiosity.

Harry finally sighed and said a bad word. "While this is not exactly how I wanted to introduce you, Kreacher, meet Crookshanks. Crookshanks, Kreacher. I'm not quite sure how we'll go about it this year, and Crookshanks is currently rightly angry at me, but Kreacher, we have another ally."

The wizened little house elf looked up at him in disbelief, but Harry returned his attention to healing his scratches and let the moment pass.

"Sorry Crookshanks, for…well, you know. Sorry Kreacher, for disturbing your afternoon and dinner prep and I hope we didn't mess up your kitchen."

Harry dabbed the back of one hand against the sensitive skin on his neck and checked for more blood.

" _Episkey,_ " he said again. "Is that all of it?"

After Kreacher peered up and then nodded, Harry pulled out a kitchen chair and collapsed onto it, leaving his rumpled cloak still lying on the floor.

"Hey, but guys!" he said, suddenly perking up. "I think the year is going to get better from here!"

From where he sat, Crookshanks seemed to snort, while Kreacher mumbled something under his breath that was a little loudly disbelieving for Harry's tastes.

"What?" he asked, honestly baffled. "I've planned everything out really clearly for this year, and there should be no complications."


	15. The Grand Plan

The air in the kitchen was still awkward and a little stiff, so Harry excused himself to go off and practice some spellwork in the drawing-room. He figured Kreacher wanted to get on with dinner without more disruptions.

Maybe Crookshanks would like to explore the house alone, too, while he got over his upset pride and settled his fur down.

He climbed the kitchen steps rapidly and stepped very, very carefully down the dark and gloomy ground floor corridor. They hadn't woken up Walburga's portrait yet, and Harry really, really didn't want to.

Then half-way up the corridor, Harry opened a door and turned right.

Dusty pale light streamed into the room through dirty windows and gently swept over settees and divans covered in swathes of white sheets that stood, ghost-like, against the general darkness of the floors, panelled ceiling, walls.

The ground floor room at the front of the house was hidden from watchers with the heavy drapes of velvet and spider silk, that further blocked more light, and Harry stepped into the centre of the room slowly. While it was technically de-infested of living creatures and Dark beings by Harry and Kreacher working together, due to the presence of the watchers at the front, they had not been able to _clean_ it, yet.

The sun-bleached – green? Grey? Silver? – wallpaper was still dark and uninviting, the dull patterns on the walls so discoloured that the original designs were literally indeterminable.

The same went for the faded oriental rug that covered the floor. What had once been – probably – rich golds and chocolate browns, deep indigos and vivid jade greens, was now…yellowed and dusty, with small hints of aged colour mere remnants of memory.

As Harry stepped further into the room with soft and gentle footsteps, small puffs of dust rose up in tiny clouds to tickle at his ankles. The room smelt like mildew and mould, and the bitter scent was probably the decomposing vermin nests that remained even after their occupants had been killed, sold, or Vanished.

Crouching in the middle of the rug, Harry ducked his head into his elbow, hesitated, sneezed.

"Ugh."

He wiped the water from his eyes with the sleeve of his robe, and settled more firmly onto the thin, decrepit rug.

Harry sneezed again, feeling his hip bones dig into the floorboards a little too much. Even with the rug beneath him, the floor had barely softened, and the dust was strong in this one. He couldn't wait for the Ministry watchers to go so that he and Kreacher could give the _whole_ house proper maintenance.

Then Harry reached for his wand, drawing it out of the mokeskin pouch it always lived in, and gave it a quick wipe on the hem of his robes.

He licked his lips.

"Right," Harry said, gearing himself up. "Right, okay. Right, then."

A demanding meow sounded behind him, from the open doorframe, and Harry jerked around to gaze into the unimpressed face of Crookshanks.

"Oh, hi there," Harry flinched and smiled. "Uh…I hope your fur is all…settled and unruffled and all, now?"

Crookshanks blinked once.

Harry shuffled around a little, scooting his bottom along the floor until he reached the edge of the rug that covered the old, dark panels on the floor. With his left hand, he reached out quickly and tugged at the faded, greyish tassels that trimmed the huge floor covering.

The threads were rough and granular on his fingertips: decades of dust was worked into the fibres, and Harry's fingers felt curiously oily and bitty.

"You can come in, if you want?" he offered. "I'm just practising my spell work."

Harry rubbed underneath his nose, where something still tickled. "Well, it's not just your everyday spell work, but I've simply _got_ to get this right soon. Er…You're welcome to stay, if you want. You know, give me pointers, maybe?"

Harry didn't know how knowledgeable Crookshanks was about anything non-cat-like, but in the four hours of spending personal time with the animal, he was beginning to realise that Crookshanks was indeed a very wise creature.

"I, um. Well, if I get this spell sorted, I'll be able to hide the house from the Ministry and Sirius will be safe for this year, I reckon."

Crookshanks padded through the door and within three feet of Harry, feet silent but nevertheless seeming heavy. Then he sat, tail curled around his body, and eyed Harry with an evaluating stare.

Harry scratched his neck. "I mean, okay. So…a history, you reckon? Alright, let's see…

"So. This is what I'm trying to do: The Fidelius Charm was invented ages ago, and never really took off because it's actually a super complicated spell to perform. It actually goes a little beyond charmwork and spellcasting, to be honest.

"I mean, it's certainly a 'charm', in that it changes the state and properties of a thing without changing its…um, it's mass, form or function? So out of transfiguration or charms, then it's definitely a charm. But it's _more_ than just a charm, you see, because it needs more than just the foundations of spellcasting. In most spells, obviously, you need the three basics: will, wand, and word, right? And as you gain mastery and control and what-not, you just use just the will and wand, or eventually just the will, if you're good. Like in silent spellcasting, for the first one. And Mrs Weasley's kitchen magic would be an example of the second."

Crookshanks flickered his ears, and Harry assumed that was permission to continue his monologue. He ran a hand through his hair absent-mindedly.

"But, y'see, the Fidelius needs more than just those three; a bunch of arithmancy to know how many times to repeat the incantation, and a form of resonance so that the spell layers up _all_ the truths of the Secret. Something about the complexity of the nature of reality, the books say, but apparently I don't need to know the _what_ for that, as long as I know the _how._ That's how it's more ' _enchantment'_ than 'charm', you know?"

The very, very tip of Crookshanks' tail twitched once and stopped Harry from babbling.

This time, Harry raked both his hands through his hair in rough enthusiasm.

"Yeah. So. Uh…basically, the point is that I need to practice the layering of resonance with a basic pentagonal spell rhythm before I build up to, uh, hiding a whole ancient manor, for example."

Harry paused thoughtfully, recalling his new knowledge gained from Sirius' memories before adding on, "It's apparently incredibly difficult to cast, like I said. Even most adult wizards can't manage it. But I've managed the Patronus before, and I've always been good at doing what needs to be done, so I reckon I've got a good chance.

"I was going to start on this rug, here. What do you think?"

Crookshanks looked very disapproving, and for a moment Harry had a wildly vivid flashback to talking with Hedwig over holidays.

He felt a pain in his chest, and blinked away the memory quickly.

"I…really? You don't think so?...I thought it was fine though."

Harry took a second look at the oriental rug he was sitting on. It filled the whole floor space, travelling almost all the way from wall to wall with only a few inches of bare wood revealed near the edges.

"You think it's too big then?"

Crookshanks meowed.

Harry rubbed his temple. "Ugh…I guess you might be right. I mean, I'd hate to start off attempting something that ends up being impossible. I should start small. Doable. I…yeah, yeah, I see."

He scanned the room with a discerning eye, looking for something a little bit smaller and more manageable to enchant.

With a pleased start, Harry straightened his spine and pointed at the divan behind him.

"What do you think, Crookshanks? If I take the dust cover off, that couch-thing seems much smaller than a rug!"

Crookshanks limber ears flickered a little bit, and his long drooping whiskers heavily implied disagreement. With a silent sigh – Harry didn't want to think it was a sigh, but he had to be honest with himself – Crookshanks stood up and nosed his way over to Harry slowly.

Harry startled awkwardly as the huge ginger beast approached him directly, and then leaned back awkwardly as Crookshanks stepped, one heavy foot at a time, up Harry's body, crawling up his legs and chest, one surprisingly solid footfall after another.

"Woah, woah…hang on there, where are you…?"

All Harry could do was freeze and wait.

After giving the tender skin on Harry's chin a single, tiny lick with a sandpaper tongue, the ginger Kneazle buried his head into Harry's chest and nuzzled around there.

Some of his long hairs went up Harry's nose, tingling and making him want to sneeze again, but after the scratches of earlier, Harry didn't want to make any sudden moves.

Besides, Crookshanks' paws were pressing rather heavily on Harry's inner thigh, an upper rib, and something very close to his collar bone. He'd known that Crookshanks was no lightweight from carrying him around on his shoulders all day, but even that weight was surprisingly heavy when it was drilled into Harry's body through only three points of contact.

Harry stoically attempted to avoid wincing. Anything to avoiding Crookshanks thinking he was unwelcome.

Then Crookshanks' scrunched up face resurfaced, with Harry's little mokeskin bag delicately carried on his mouth.

"Oh? Oh!" Harry exclaimed. "That's what you…er…something from in here? You don't think that's going to be a little too easy for me?"

The Kneazle met Harry's gaze with half-lidded eyes.

"It's just it doesn't seem much like a house, to m…" Harry raised his hands in defeat. "Alright, alright. If that's what you recommend, I'll do it. I'll do it, okay?"

The sudden rumble and shudders surprised him, but it was just Crookshanks' purr shaking through his body.

The half-Kneazle retreated to his earlier spot gracefully, leave Harry to unfreeze and paw through his pouch.

"This?" Harry held up his money pouch, normally kept safely within the mokeskin for security purposes. Crookshanks vibrated once, quellingly.

"This then?" Harry stuff the money pouch back into the mokeskin and brandished an old note-book instead. "Look…it's pretty tiny."

"Look," Harry raked a frustrated hand through his hair. "You don't…surely you aren't saying…The only things I have left…" He pulled out a single Eagle Owl quill, a little bedraggled, since he'd used it so often. "A feather quill? You're sure?"

To Harry's mildly offended eyes, Crookshanks looked very smug.

Harry placed it carefully down on the rug between the two of him, Harry and his Kneazle, and looked up measuringly at Crookshanks just once.

"This is what you want me to…? Yeah? Okay then. I guess I'll get to work then."

Harry picked up his wand from where he'd somehow placed it. Dropped it? Left it, and licked his dry lips once.

"Resonance, yeah? And will, wand, and words. Here I go, first attempt."

His wand raised, poised and powerful.

" _Fidelis cela secretum meum,"_ he intoned, brow furrowed. A shimmering little gold sigil formed in the air above his wand tip. Harry drew a deep breath of musty air into his lungs and spoke once more. " _Fidelis cela secretum meum."_ Suddenly a mental force seemed to jolt his spell sideways, and Harry _felt_ the magic start to wriggle within his grasp. _"Fidelis cela secretum meum._ Damn. _"_

The two and a half delicate little symbols wavering in the air blew out like candleflame, and Harry almost bit through his lip.

"Sweet Merlin, but that was more complicated than I thought it would be," Harry muttered, completely forgetting about Crookshanks' presence. " _That's_ what they mean by resonance? Goddammit. Again."

He raised his wand once more, his mind a pond of cool, calm depths, and reached inside him to feel the shiver and lap of the spell magic echoing inside him.

"Once more."

He frowned.

"Again."

* * *

Some hours later, Harry and his loyal shadow stumbled down Walburga's corridor once more and made it down to the kitchen, where Kreacher had prepared rich, heavy dinner.

Harry's feet, of course, were the only ones faltering as they stepped across the stone floor. Crookshanks followed about three feet behind him with absolute confidence and steadiness, to Harry's sense of ironic irritation.

"Oh, roast potatoes and gravy?" he murmured, lurching into his seat at the table with a little less grace than usual. "Kreacher, you are a gift to wizard-kind. This is just what I needed."

His mouth watered eagerly, and the throbbing headache seemed to recede in the face of heady flavours and high calorie count.

"Mmmmmm," Harry moaned, filling his mouth with the first full bite of crumbly potato flesh and crisp, golden skin. "This almost makes up for everything."

Kreacher toddled over to the table too, placing one full plate on the floor in front of Crookshanks, and hesitantly sliding into the seat opposite Harry to eat his own meal.

Harry waved him down eagerly. "Eat! Eat! It's great. So good. Mmmm. Hurry up and join me, Kreacher. Don't hesitate!"

The grumpy little old elf perched by his plate and reached out for a fork to stab his own peas with.

"How is going the magic then?" Kreacher enquired.

Harry flinched. "Don't ask. Don't ask. I don't wanna talk about it till after dinner… or we'll just ruin good food."

"...Kreacher understands."

* * *

Once dinner was properly appreciated, and Harry, Kreacher and Crookshanks were fed, watered, and relaxed, it appeared that all of Harry's embarrassing mistakes were forgiven and forgotten.

Harry sat his two companions down, waving Kreacher back from the dishes in the sink and getting Crookshanks to jump up on the table, before finally speaking honestly to them both.

"Crookshanks was right," he began honestly. "I needed to start the Fidelius off small. _Really_ small. I'm feeling the resonance, so that's something," he went on, "but I don't know if my timing's going to work out, and that means I need to tell you – both of you – some more stuff I haven't mentioned yet.

"I was serious when I told you it would be one heck of a year," Harry spoke slowly, almost haltingly. "I'm concerned about Sirius, first of all."

"The bad master is living in your box," Kreacher nodded sagely. "The young master is not taking it to school like that, Kreacher thinks."

Harry rubbed the back of his neck, the long gouge marks still lingering as phantom pain. "Actually, that's…certainly part of it. Crookshanks, this bit has something to do with you."

Harry took a moment to wonder if he really was going mad, talking to a cat so seriously, before reminding himself sternly that this was exactly how Sirius had bought him a Firebolt in the not-to-distant future past.

"So, to sum it all up, I've come back from the future," Harry rushed out quickly. "I'm trying to change things, but some of it has to stay the same. Sirius is trying to kill his old friend, a man called Pettigrew, who betrayed my parents to their deaths."

He twitched a little as Kreacher snapped his fingers and the large carving knife flew over from its place and stabbed deeply into the kitchen table.

"Uh…Thanks Kreacher, but...yeah, not yet. Okay?"

Kreacher frowned a little, but nodded reluctantly. Harry swallowed the lump in his throat and kept talking.

"So, yeah. Killing Pettigrew. While I'm all good with that in theory, Pettigrew has to survive the year so that he can escape and bring Voldemort back to life."

His audience watched Harry silently.

He coughed awkwardly.

"I, uh, need him to be properly alive so that I can kill him later. It's the only way I can think of to get him to stop trying to murder me. But that's nothing to worry about now. I've got a plan, it's all under control. No, what's complicating matters is that Sirius really is in worse health than I thought he was. I don't want to take his goal away from him, in case it destabilises him more. But I can't have him achieve his goal either, because that would ruin everything. Similarly, I can't just hide him back here all year, because this house is not good for him either, and the Ministry watchers are still observing the house. And I'm not really comfortable leaving him unsupervised. Even _if_ you take one for the team, Kreacher."

Harry nodded in the house-elf's direction. Crookshanks' tail twitched once. Kreacher just stared. Harry rushed on.

"So I've been thinking, and we can't properly clean up the house until it's hidden from the Ministry. And I can't hide the house under Fidelius charm until the watchers have left. If I even manage to master it as fast as I thought I would, and, frankly, it's not looking too good at the moment."

Kreacher's ears twitched, indicating something that Harry couldn't read.

"Sirius is going to have to come with me to school, but that's where Pettigrew is hiding." Harry looked apologetically at the ginger cat to his left. "Crookshanks already knows how well some of my plans work out, which is why I'm going to need your help. I, uh…I was thinking that maybe I could take my whole trunk to school, and leave Sirius inside it, but have him keep thinking that he was hidden in Grimmauld Place? I can't let him know that we'll be moving into Gryffindor dorm soon, because Pettigrew lives there too…Oh, Pettigrew is currently pretending to be the pet rat of a friend of mine."

This time, Crookshanks' ears twitched. Kreacher reached out to grasp the handle of the knife still buried in the wooden table. Harry smiled awkwardly.

"I was thinking that Kreacher could come over to Hogwarts every now and then and visit Sirius, and that way Sirius would still think he's back here. I _know you don't want to,_ " Harry rushed, because 'Kreacher was a good house-elf' and had made such a fuss the last time Harry asked him to go outside. "But I really need all the help I can get. I honestly don't think I can do this alone anymore – oh, it's been just me for the past two or so years now, I think. Although it is slowly getting a bit much for just me."

His audience looked on silently, and Harry hoped that didn't mean anything bad. "But, Kreacher, it would be such a big help, because Sirius thinks that house-elves can't leave their homes. And Crookshanks could scare the rat – uh, harass it, to be honest – but without actually trying to kill it. Then at the end of the year, we can stage a dramatic conflict, deprive Pettigrew of his place at Hogwarts, and he'll definitely run off to find his old master."

His audience looked spectacularly unimpressed.

"I don't think it's unrealistic," Harry protested in the silence. "Sirius is currently refusing to come out of my luggage. It's some kind of post-incarceration syndrome thing: paranoia, learned helplessness, post-traumatic stress…I looked it up in a library," he added proudly. "It's a real thing, you know. And then when Kreacher reports that the ministry watchers have left for good, I can sneak out and put the house under the Fidelius, and tell Sirius it's time for me to start Hogwarts for the year, and that he has to come out of my luggage then. What do you think?"

There was a long silence.

" _This_ is the young master's grand plan?" Kreacher finally spoke.

Harry ran his hand through his hair. "Well, the backup plan is that I dose Sirius with Draught of Living Death until it's all sorted out, but that doesn't seem like a great way to build a relationship."

"…Kreacher understands."

With stately deliberation, Crookshanks stood up and plodded over the table to headbutt Harry's hands fondly. A deep, rhythmic rumble travelled up Harry's arms, and he realised that the half-Kneazle was purring energetically.

"Thanks," Harry murmured to the cat. "That's either acceptance or encouragement, I suppose. You think I need the help, do you?"

His house-elf nodded grimly. "The young master is needing all the help he can get."

Harry smiled gratefully at his two friends. "While we're on the topic," he added cheerfully, "if you have any ideas on how to rob one of Gringotts' high-security vaults without anyone knowing, do let me know, won't you?"

While Crookshanks nuzzled Harry's hands vigorously, Kreacher's throat worked, finally swallowing noisily. "Kreacher is – " the house-elf croaked, "Kreacher is doing his best."


	16. Slow, Steady Steps Forward

In the pale light of an early London morning, Harry had to face more questions from Kreacher. Apparently the house-elf had had trouble sleeping the night prior, due to all the questions and uncertainties that had drifted into his mind overnight.

Kreacher once again shuffled tentatively into the chair opposite Harry's, and Harry was about to say something like, 'You know you always have my permission to sit with me, right?' when Kreacher spoke in a particularly gravelly voice.

"The young master is saying he is time-travelling?"

Harry nodded his head rapidly before he could finally swallow his mouthful of scrambled eggs and chives.

"Oh yes, it's true. Not that I blame you for doubting me, of course."

Grasping his long ears nervously, Kreacher tugged them gently, jerking his head left and right a little bit with the force of his tugs.

Harry watched with furrowed brows. "You're not punishing yourself for that, are you?"

"Kreacher is a good elf," Kreacher reassured him. "Kreacher is…not doubting. Kreacher is…just processing. Kreacher is…is the young master staying?"

His large grey pupils peeked up at Harry from within his sunken eye-sockets.

Harry was almost offended. "What? Of course I'm staying here. Till Hogwarts, of course."

"Kreacher is meaning…meaning…"

Crookshanks, perched behind Harry on the only kitchen counter to receive direct sunlight, meowed once. Harry twitched.

"Oh, sorry." He put his fork down with a heavy clatter. "You mean, in this timeline? Yeah…I've come back to stay."

Kreacher stopped tugging his head around, instead choosing to clench and unclench his fists tightly. "So, the young master…the time travel…the, the goals…"

Glancing between the earnestly trying Kreacher, and the patiently waiting Crookshanks, Harry leaned back in his seat.

"I guess you need more explanation then?" he asked. Harry spent a moment brushing any stray crumbs of his lips and robes, before giving his audience his full attention.

"I came back from a future where lots of people died. Unnecessarily," he added. "I didn't precisely plan to come back, but there was a bunch of ancient magic that all kind of happened at once, sacrificial magic – mine, my mum's – pure hate from Vo-the Dark Lord…I don't think there was blood magic? Oh…unless my death counts, of course, but I wasn't technically bleeding at the time…" Harry frowned. "I've done a bit of reading into it. There might have been some ritual elements on both sides? I mean, I _technically did_ walk the gauntlet, or whatever..."

Harry shot an apologetic look towards Crookshanks and Kreacher in front of him. "I don't really understand the old magicks that well, sorry. Never really looked into blood magic either. But anyway."

He picked up his story again. "A bunch of old, powerful magic kind of combined and I got given two choices, so, naturally," he ran his fingers through that famous Potter hair, as per his habit, "I chose the third option, of course. Family luck, I suspect it was. Been trying to figure my plan out ever since. On the fly, as it were."

To his mild amusement, Kreacher and Crookshanks exchanged a single look between them that spoke volumes.

"I'm not mad," he assured his closest friends and allies. "I mean, maybe I am crazy, but not because of this, at any rate. I've finally managed to get hold of a Pensieve with all my first memories, and I've pretty much worked through them for now."

He added in a quiet mumble, just in case he'd been acting a bit more off than he thought: "You can check them out in the Pensieve later, if you want. They'll back me up."

"But that aside," Harry spoke loudly again, "I want to stop a bunch of people dying, maybe help a few kids make some better choices….that kind of thing. It's not like I want to save the world or anything, but since I had the option make things better, I figured I couldn't say no. You know?"

From the suspiciously blank looks on the faces of Kreacher and Crookshanks, Harry suspected that they did _not_ , in fact, know. But that was okay. As long as they were willing to help him out. Harry felt a lot more confident know that there were three on his team again.

He picked up his fork again, and began to ferry breakfast back into his mouth.

Maybe after breakfast, he could make the team bigger again? Get to know each other?

"Thanks for this," Harry mumbled around his slowly cooling eggs and bacon. "Last time around I dealt with all my problems – just the normal Dark Lord business and all – with the help of my school friends, but they all seem so young and innocent now. I really can't justify bringing them into all this. I'm hoping you guys can look after yourselves." He nodded at Kreacher. "I've seen you fight, you know. You're pretty amazing when you get serious." Then he looked at Crookshanks. "And _you're_ a regular little secret agent."

Kreacher looked at Harry soberly, his mouth working silently. But then he settled back into his chair, little legs swinging, and Harry didn't know what he had been trying to say. Instead, he looked at Crookshanks, who was still sunning himself lazily on the counter.

"Would you be willing to meet my godfather later today?" Harry asked the great cat. "He's a good guy, last time you guys became very good friends. He's just a little damaged right now, is all."

The small lion mewed over at Harry and jumped onto the floor.

"Alright then," Harry assumed. "Do you want to come too, Kreacher? Sticking together in solidarity, and all that? You can bring him breakfast, if you want. He'll have to start trusting you some time."

His house-elf scowled to himself and muttered a number of very insulting things under his breath, but slipped off the table to follow the Kneazle and wizard up the stairs.

* * *

The three were soon gathered around Harry's school trunk, and watched closely as Harry unlocked the lid and stepped down into what he now thought of as Sirius' compartment.

"Sirius?" Harry called down as he stepped onto the first step. "Padfoot? It's Harry, your godson again. There's someone I want you to meet."

When he arrived at the bottom of the stairs, his godfather was sitting up in dog form, eyeing his guests warily.

He growled a little as the surly Kreacher followed Harry down, but allowed him to place the bowl of food and water on the floor in front of him.

Then Crookshanks made his entrance, leaping gracefully down the flight of stairs to stop cautiously a few feet from Padfoot and stare.

"Padfoot?" Harry crouched down, "Do you think you could change back for us? You remember of Kreacher, of course. He brought you dinner today. I brought you some cutlery? I thought you might try to eat in human form today?"

The great black dog rumbled dangerously in his throat and sniffed the offending meal suspiciously.

"It's roast beef," Harry tried again. "I'm sure it will be fine if you eat it as a dog, but you'll love it as a human, I promise."

His godfather didn't make a move.

Harry sighed, then waved his hand in Crookshanks' direction. "Well, while you're thinking about that, I'd like you to meet Crookshanks, my newest friend. He's a half-Kneazle, half-cat. A, uh, very intelligent, very loyal, all Gryffindor animal. I thought the two of you would get along."

Kreacher hunkered down to watch as Padfoot and Crookshanks eyed each other warily. Slowly, the cat stood up and trotted forward to sniff inquisitively at the huge dog. Despite Crookshanks' size and Padfoot's gauntness, the great black dog dwarfed him.

The ginger cat snuffled cautiously around Padfoot's face, then curiously walked around his body. Sirius, to everybody's surprise, stayed perfectly still, allowing the ginger cat behind him with no trouble.

Harry watched in amazement as Crookshanks sauntered in his bow-legged way a full circle around his godfather, then sat down in front of him again, right under Padfoot's chest.

Padfoot, still stiff and uncertain, sat awkwardly upright while the cat approached his body, then exhaled heavily when the creature finally sat down. From where Harry stood, he could see clearly the whites of Padfoot's eyes.

Kreacher and Harry exchanged a glance when finally Padfoot looked down to sniff the cat before him in greeting, and eventually let the worst of the tension bleed out of his shoulders, blinking in bewilderment.

Of everyone in the room, the only being who seemed at ease was the cat.

Then, to Harry's confusion, Crookshanks leaned forward delicately and helped himself to some of the beef on Padfoot's plate.

Harry glanced at his godfather. What would he do?

Despite years of Care of Magical Creatures classes, and his longstanding friendship with Hagrid, Harry had never considered himself an expert at understanding animals. But even to his amateur eyes, it was absolutely obvious that the great dog before him had no idea how to react. If dogs could look utterly bemused, Harry realised, then before him was the ultimate example.

Slowly, uncertainly, Padfoot growled a little at the creature in front of him. Harry and Kreacher watched in surprise as the ginger cat froze, looked back at the dog for a long moment, and then returned to eating the well-cooked meat with a very catty shrug.

Padfoot stared at Crookshanks in amazement, before glancing up at Harry in confusion.

"Don't ask me," Harry held out his arms in confusion. "I never claimed to understand cats."

Padfoot leaned down with his long snout, and bruskly nosed Crookshanks' rear. The cat ignored him completely.

His godfather stared another long moment at the dinner-thief in front of him, and then to Harry's amazement, slowly, carefully melted down from his Animagus form to return to his human body. Harry's mouth went dry in surprise.

In a low voice, husky with disuse, Sirius finally spoke. "Who do you think you are, walking in here and eating my meal like that?"

Crookshanks continued ignoring him, although it seemed like his eating of the food sped up a bit.

"Hey!" Sirius exclaimed. "That's my meal, that is. My godkid and thingy brought it down here just for me!"

Crookshanks twitched the tip of his tail.

"I said that's mine!" Sirius reached out and grabbed the bowl away from Crookshanks, and clutched it to his chest. "Hey kiddo, did you say you brought down some cutlery for me? I need to show this bloody animal who this food is for."

Harry and Kreacher watched in surprise, Crookshanks with smug satisfaction, as Sirius manoeuvred his cutlery around, slicing off whole mouthfuls of tender meat.

"So what brings you down here?" Sirius asked around his full mouth, as he ate. "Aside from to introduce me to this dodgy character."

"Oh, meet Crookshanks, say hi to Kreacher, find out how you're doing." Harry shrugged grandly. "Hey Sirius, if you wanted to get something out of a high-security vault at Gringotts without anyone knowing, how would you do it? Oh, and if it doesn't belong to you?"

Sirius practically inhaled his food, then paused and met Harry's eyes. "Impossible, if you ask me." He finally responded. "I mean, I'm a wanted criminal. I couldn't set a foot into Gringotts without being arrested – or killed, they don't mind either way, those goblins. Even if I went as Padfoot, they have all sorts of security features that recognise disguises: Polyjuice, Animagus forms, transfiguration. It's impossible, don't you know."

Harry scowled. "Well I know someone broke into Gringotts when I was back in first-year, but the vault had been emptied earlier that day." Harry remembered the differences in timelines. "Uh. Earlier that week. If Vol- I mean, if that witch or wizard could do it, then it must be possible. They never got caught, either."

Sirius slowly put his fork and spoon together in the bowl, and placed it neatly on the floor. "Well," he began slowly. "Everyone always said that escaping from Azkaban was impossible too, now that you mention it. And look where I am now."

"Exactly."

"Still, nothing comes to mind," Sirius cautioned. "You're thinking a bit big, aren't you kid? Even the Marauders never planned that large."

"Oh!" exclaimed Harry. "There was something else too. You have opinions about Malfoy, don't you?"

"Who, Lucius? Not only is he a Death Eater, he's a ponce. Why?"

Harry shrugged innocently. "I was thinking about tricking him into freeing his house-elf – sorry Kreacher, the house-elf is really unhappy there. I was thinking I could help out Dobby while pissing off Dra—Malfoy and his dad, and it seemed like too good a chance to pass up."

Kreacher scowled suspiciously at Harry. "House-elves is not wanting to be free."

Harry waved his hands. "It's okay, I have a plan." To his surprise, both Kreacher and Crookshanks looked suspicious. "I really do!" Harry protested. "If Sirius and Kreacher don't get on, and Dobby needs a new owner, then I was thinking I could buy, swap, or otherwise take ownership of Kreacher, and Dobby could look after Sirius. Wouldn't that work?"

Again, for some reason his audience looked anything but excited.

"Oh," Harry continued. "I mean, we'd do it all in a very respectful way. I'd never want to diminish Kreacher or Dobby. Or any other house-elf." He paused. "And obviously I'd need to show all the proper respect to the Ancient and Noble House of Black. But surely that way it would all work out?"

Kreacher subsided into thoughtful silence.

Harry continued. "So I'd be happy, Kreacher would be happy, Sirius would be happy, Dobby would be happy, and Malfoy senior would be really pissed off. What's wrong with that?" Harry rushed on, "And if Kreacher really wants to stay in Grimmauld Place, then I could buy it off Sirius, if you're okay with that. So Kreacher and Sirius would be more happy again."

Sirius let out a raucous bark of laughter. "Merlin, you're like your dad! And Lily, but all rolled up in one packet. You must have big brass ones to be planning all of this on your own. I love it! Alright Pup, I'll see what I can come up with. What a plan!"

Harry nodded warily. "Thanks, I…thanks. Just let me know."

It was too soon to say he felt optimistic, but things felt like they were finally looking up. He just knew that this year would go swimmingly.

* * *

By the time Kreacher's yeast had produced its first batch of bread, and Kreacher's face began looking not only more cheerful but healthier, Crookshanks and Sirius had gone most of the way towards being friends.

Sirius continued to hide in Harry's trunk, making any number of excuses not to come out. But Crookshanks' presence seemed to be doing him some good, and he was spending more time in human form now, Harry thought. It possibly had something to do with being able to complain at the cat: for taking the best spot in the room, getting to the food first, demanding attention. Harry didn't mind; it stopped Sirius thinking so much about himself, and interrupted the cycle of depression.

Animal therapy was thing, wasn't it? Hermione had mentioned it once, he remembered.

When not with Sirius, Crookshanks began disappearing into the house for long hours at a time, and Harry would have been worried about if he hadn't known the cat for many years prior. It was still somewhat reassuring when he returned looking smug, occasionally still with a pixie wing or spider leg dangling from his mouth.

That was where the friendship between Crookshanks and Kreacher truly began, Harry thought. He tried not to question their relationship too much.

Meanwhile, Harry himself made the most of the last few days before Hogwarts.

He and Hermione would get very competitive over the school year, Harry could tell, and she would be difficult to keep up with. She was even worse than last time around, Harry would swear. Giving her competition had challenged her to seek greater academic heights. But what Harry really cared about was his magic, so he crept down into Sirius' compartment and brewed potions, and learned charms, and asked for help with Runes and Arithmancy.

"Sorry, Pup," Sirius had to tell him, Crookshanks perched complacently on his lap. "It's been a long time since I learned those. You'll want to watch out for confusion, of course."

Seated on the floor by the end of Harry's bed, Sirius leaned over the cat to point a grimy finger at Harry's open textbook, lying on the rug.

" _Eihwaz_ and _ehwaz_ are obvious once you notice the similarities because the runes themselves are so different, but it's _isaz_ and _laguz_ – um, what's its other name, nevermind – that you really have to watch out for. Depending on how lazy your handwriting gets, those two can really screw you over. Add a little too much flick, or not quite enough, and your marks will plummet, I tell you. Not to mention when you start practising your actual rune crafting. I can remember that bit, now I think about it!"

Sirius settled back into fond remembrances, and finally Harry was compelled to interrupt.

"What can you remember?"

Sirius started. "If you take Runes up until your N.E.W.T.s, kid – not that I ever did, but Remus obviously managed – you'll learn that miscarved runes can cause explosions every bit as exciting as those you can make in Potions. Moony used to show off for us in the common room. Those were good days."

Harry imagined for a moment the chaos his father's friends caused. "I thought Moony was the good one? Didn't you say Dad calmed down enough to attract my Mum around N.E.W.T years?"

"Well yes," Sirius seemed surprised. "But one or two explosions were _expected_. It's not like we all developed mature personalities or anything."

"Truth," Harry muttered, watching Sirius revel in the remembered chaos. "So no real advice for now then?"

"I'll keep thinking," Sirius reassured him. "I'm not back up to speed just yet, but don't count old Padfoot out too soon."

Harry shifted in his seat, and changed the topic. "Then, one more question, if you don't mind?"

"Go on kid, what are you all nervous for?"

Harry cringed. "I was hoping you could watch me try to cast a Fidelius on this quill, and see how it goes?"

Sirius' face darkened. "Bollocks. I'd hoped you were thinking about girls. You don't think you're a bit stuck on this Fidelius Charm? No chance I can persuade you to forget it?"

"I think I need to cast one on the house," Harry protested. "But I'll need to build up to it. I'm not like Dumbledore or Dad, I haven't done this before."

Sirius sighed. "Will telling you you're really far too young for this kind of thing stop you at all?"

"Someone has to do it," Harry pouted.

"But you can't loan me your wand, because…"

"The Fidelius is supposed to be a very powerful, complex spell that probably needs a wand matched well with the caster," Harry pointed out. "And you just told me it's been a long time since you've thought of this kind of thing. Plus," he paused, "I'm probably a bit healthier than you at the moment, and I suspect you shouldn't be stressing your magic."

Sirius leapt up, Crookshanks losing his position of Sirius' lap with a disgruntled scowl, and Sirius paced rapidly around the small room, muttering darkly. "…failure," Harry finally heard Sirius muttering darkly, "Bloody useless godfather, aren't I…wrong friend…no thinking at all…locked up…Couldn't even get you your birthday presents, and how here you are looking after me…because _I'm incapable of looking after myself!_ "

"…Sirius…"

He continued pacing. "…Damn rat…Should have killed him when I had the chance. Hear that, kid? Don't stop and ask questions next time, just go for the throat."

"...Right," said Harry, eyebrows raised. "I'll remember that one. But shall we sort this out first?"

"Kill the bastard and get vengeance for us all," snarled Sirius. "I've been fantasising about it for…ah, but I didn't even think about…" He paused in his pacing. "Do you think they snapped my wand, Pup?"

"Probably?"

Sirius sighed. "So I need to find a way to get into Gringotts after all so I can get gold, so I can buy myself a new wand…and a disguise…"

Harry held up his hands peaceably.

"I can shout you the money if you need it, or you could ask Crookshanks to take a note for you. But first we need to set you up with a safe house, don't you think? So can I try the Fidelius now?"

Sirius threw himself back down onto the ground next to Harry. "Bloody hell. Sounds like you've got it all together after all. You make a better wizard than I do, it seems. Alright then Pup, give it a go. I'm Secret Keeper, I suppose?"

"Please."

Sirius' face twisted with irony and pain. "Let's hope I can get his one right, then. On you go."

Harry placed the fancy feather quill on the floor of the compartment, in the centre of the rug, and drew his wand carefully.

With all the attention he could muster, Harry carefully waved his wand and muttered out the charm incantation.

" _Fidelis cela secretum meum_ _," he_ intoned, and carefully traced a glowing emblem in the air. Slowly, gently, with all the care and concentration he used to first place his memories into the Penseive, Harry then kept the connection steady until his wand dipped to tap the edge of the small rug the quill rested on. There was a small golden flare of light, and Harry felt his energy dip. With his newfound experience in spell-casting, there was the barest of connections between him and the glowing sigil, a lapping - almost rippling - magical connection.

" _Fidelis cela secretum meum_ ," he repeated, keeping his voice even, his rhythm regular, his breathing calm. A second glowing symbol wavered in the air, and Harry quickly grounded it to another point on the rug. It hovered there hesitantly, before the little flare of light reoccurred and Harry stifled a sigh of relief. He wanted to sigh, to roll his shoulders and stretch. He felt exhaustion creeping up on him from a distance. For a moment, Harry felt the resonances within him ripple, somehow colliding within him, but he forced the spell to hold.

" _Fidelis cela secretum meum."_

Again, his vision started going a little wonky, and black fog started creeping in from his peripheral vision. Harry blinked, furiously concentrated.

" _Fidelis cela secretum meum_ ," he said a fourth time, but his voice dropped a little at the end, in his rush to finish the charm.

The golden sigil, drawn so carefully with the tip of his wand, wobbled uncertainly before the edges quickly dissolved away. To Harry's dismay, the first three emblems promptly spluttered and went out.

Harry said a bad word.

Sirius eyed him appraisingly. "You've been holding out on me, Pup. That spell almost worked."

"Almost isn't good enough," Harry scowled. "I'm supposed to be good at this stuff. Practical spellwork. It's the theory and all where I struggle. But this, this is a life-or-death situation, and a practical charm. Put all together, that's supposed to be my strength."

"I'd say it is your strength," Sirius nodded. "You're – how old did you say you were? Getting almost halfway through a Fidelius Charm? Your mum would be bouncing off the walls right now. And I thought you took after your dad!" Then Sirius hesitated, "You've had a few life-or-death struggles then, you say? Been out into the Forbidden Forest, have we?"

Harry's attention was arrested for a bit, before he grimaced. "I'll tell you what I've been up to at Hogwarts, if you tell me more about my mum," he finally replied. "But later, if that's okay." He returned his attention back to the matter at hand.

"It must be the Arithmancy," he said glumly. "I haven't studied it yet, so I don't know what I'm doing."

"Nah," Sirius sprawled backwards onto the ground and gazed at the ceiling. "It's not like you need to reinvent the thing. You just mispronounced the incantation. Basic mistake, anyone could do it."

Harry shot him a half-hearted glare. "I'm – er, thirteen? Yeah, thirteen, now. I'm supposed to be past all these problems."

Sirius rolled back over to look at Harry. "Nonsense, all sorts of wizards make mistakes like that. Did Chamberling never tell you the story of the wizard Baruffio?"

"Who's Chamberling?"

"Who teaches you Charms these days?"

"Oh. Flitwick. Yes, he did, I think."

Sirius smirked. "Well, there you go then. Besides, that was only your first attempt, right? Just remember to keep each incantation pronounced exactly the same way, so that they layer up. You're trying to cause a resonance with your voice and wand-tracing so that a feedback loop develops."

About to shake his head – he'd practised for hours yesterday – Harry was somewhat distracted. "I'm pretty sure Baruffio had a speech impediment," he protested, but Sirius waved his confusion away.

"When you really get it right, each following incantation will pick up an echo, a kind of reverberation. You build on that, and the Charm will last for years. How did you go with the power requirements?"

Harry had to check. "Not horrible, I don't think. A bit tired, but nothing shocking. Your memories of Mum said that the power requirements would increase exponentially with the size of the focus though?"

Sirius nodded. "You probably do want to pick up that resonance if you can, now I think about it. Make it work for you. You're awfully mighty for a third year, Pup, but you can't really afford to leak power out of the spell at your level. Up for another try?"

"Sure." Harry gripped his wand tightly.

"You know when you do this on the house, you'll have to be Secret Keeper too?" Sirius suddenly asked. "I own it, I'll be living here. There's too many links between it and me for the Secret to stay hidden in my soul."

Harry closed his eyes. "I wondered about that. That's okay. I've got this, it's fine. I overcome these types of problems on a daily basis. Alright…"

He raised his wand up for another try.


	17. Another Test

All too soon, the holidays disappeared and it was time for Harry to return to Hogwarts. To his guilty satisfaction, and Kreacher's unsurprised dismay, Sirius was still utterly unconcerned and oblivious to the date. There was barely any packing to do – he was taking his luggage with him, of course, and Kreacher was staying behind, so it was quite early on Wednesday morning that Harry stood in front of his house-elf and said his goodbyes.

"Where is the orange Kneazle?" Kreacher asked as he fussed around straightening Harry's robes.

"Already in the trunk," Harry replied. "I told him I wouldn't Apparate again, so I'm going to have to fly."

Kreacher checked himself. "Young master…"

"I know, I know," Harry exclaimed. "I'll wear the Invisibility Cloak until I'm through the platform. Sirius usually doesn't wake up until midday, so I should be safe from that. I'll call you around lunch so Sirius gets his normal meal, and at dinner time again. Does that work for you?"

Kreacher muttered something uncomplimentary about 'mad plans'.

Harry patted the elf's shoulder reassuringly. "It'll all work out, you'll see. Without Sirius to worry about, running around Hogwarts, this should be a relatively quiet year."

* * *

It all went well for the next hour. Kreacher saw Harry, his invisible luggage, and his broomstick off from one of the back bedrooms, and Harry soared off into the London sky feeling positively optimistic about life.

He found his way to King's Cross Station with no trouble and he landed without a problem, walking confidently and invisibly right up to the Platform barrier with no worries at all.

Then he crashed into it.

Harry staggered back in pain, clutching his Invisibility Cloak tightly around his body, the hood fortunately tight over his face.

He knee was stinging as if he had just scraped a good layer of skin off, and Harry suddenly wondered if dripping blood would show through the Invisibility Cloak fabric. His nose was stinging too. He thought it might be broken, and he would fix it in a moment, as soon as his eyes stopped watering and he could see again.

Cursing quietly to himself, he had to suddenly back up to avoid a pedestrian who obviously hadn't seen him, and promptly tripped over the invisible leather trunk that floated loyally just behind his heels.

The resulting crash garnered a few stares and curious looks, but thankfully Harry had still been clutching his Cloak. He watched warily as a wizarding person stepped up suspiciously – one of the regular Ministry watchers for the school rush, he assumed – but soon the attention was gone and Harry could walk up to the barrier again.

This time, instead of striding out confidently, Harry reached out an arm to tap cautiously against the brick wall.

Solid. He rapped his knuckles against the brick, then cradled his hand gently.

The skin was rough and red.

There was definitely going to be no walking through this barrier, Harry felt sure. It reminded him of more innocent days, but he put the thought aside to consider his problem.

How were other families getting to the Platform? He waited in silence for a few minutes, before a mother and her son walked over, looking suspiciously wizard-like.

To Harry's astonishment, they passed through the brick with no resistance, like there wasn't a wall there at all.

He quickly walked up and tried again. Another knock, although this time Harry only kicked the bricks with his foot, instead of faceplanting into it.

Perhaps there was a charm on the wall to resist Sirius? Harry supposed he could technically count as Sirius' illegal transport.

His left hand went up to scratch his head, and Harry chewed his lower lip absently while he thought.

But that couldn't be right. Hogwarts' wards never registered Sirius when he was Padfoot, and Sirius was sleeping as Padfoot. On top of that, Sirius was currently in wizard-space.

There seemed no good reason for Harry to be locked out of the Platform at all.

The whole situation was as confusing and baffling as that one time when…

Oh. Harry realised that the Malfoys were still intimately connected to the Ministry, and had probably mentioned at home that the infamous Sirius Black had probably escaped from Azkaban to look for Harry Potter at Hogwarts.

It would be Dobby.

Protecting him again.

Still invisible, Harry rolled his eyes in frustration and fondness. The squeaky, hyper little house elf had never particularly tried to hide his - love? Obsession? - for Harry, and this year no longer looked quite so quietly scholarly. If Harry's rather developed survival instincts had anything to say about it, Harry would bet that Dobby would ramp up his efforts this year.

Harry leaned over to pick up his luggage by the handle, wishing that he had thought to test what Apparition felt like from within the trunk. He'd hefted it downstairs and around the kitchen this morning, and Sirius hadn't woken up. Presumably, that meant outside influences were muted within the trunk.

Hopefully, at any rate. But walking was somewhat different to squeezing through a tube made of the fabric of the universe.

With a silent apology to Crookshanks, who was ideally also sleeping and might therefore miss the whole experience, Harry shrugged his shoulders and clenched the trunk tightly in his left hand.

"Phew," he breathed, keeping a watchful eye out for anyone who might have noticed his invisible loitering. No one seemed suspicious.

Nodding firmly to himself once, 'fine, okay, moving on', Harry twitched the wrist of his wand arm, spun around on his heel and Disapparated with a crack. He never noticed the disturbance in the crowd he left behind.

Instead, Harry was arriving on the Platform, the crowds already beginning to fill in, although not threatening to be at their peak for at least another forty minutes. He pulled off his Cloak immediately, and disappeared into the throng to find his way onto the Hogwarts Express that was hissing and spitting already, on the track.

Just another student in the crowd.

Having no family to see him off, and being somewhat buffeted by the surging people, Harry climbed into the nearest carriage easily, in order to give himself some breathing space. Unlike his usual memories - which obviously involved being 'almost late' to the Express more often than not - Harry found himself pacing past lots of empty seats in the first carriage. There was one senior Slytherin boy, head in a book, sitting in the second compartment on his own, and two compartments down on his left, Harry saw a pile of unattended luggage. Harry assumed the normal students, with family and whatnot, were making the most of their goodbyes. He shrugged, not begrudging them, and set himself off down the train to look for a likely compartment for himself.

Without the familiar hustle and bustle of students calling and laughing and lounging, their pets squawking and sleeping in cages beside them, Harry found the Hogwarts Express to be curiously spacious. The wooden carriages smelt cold and a little bit musty, like they'd been shut up in storage for a few months. Mildly arrested by the thought, Harry decided that was probably the case.

Even if the Express ran its route for more things than just the Hogwarts contingent, it wouldn't be using the passenger carriages to do it. At least not all of them. Because, Harry worked out rapidly, now that he was thinking about it, the Hogwarts Express would _never_ have been created if its only job was to ferry children up to Scotland. The Scottish students, for one thing, would have had many better options to get there.

One eyebrow quirked thoughtfully as Harry wondered, stepping from the first passenger carriage into the second by way of the cast-iron decks that crossed the coupler, what kind of products the Express might carry during the rest of the year.

He searched his memory briefly for other types of train carriages: er...open carriages? For, um, logging? And, ah...cattle?

Slightly amazed at how immediately the thought had come to him, Harry stepped more confidently down the isle of the next passenger carriage, his curiosity appeased. How easy had that been? Industries like farming and construction would need to transport large, possibly even regular, amounts of goods that weren't really appropriate to take through Apparition or Floo. Naturally. Harry found a small smirk had crawled its way into the corner of his mouth. It was obvious, now. Harry wondered how many other students realised.

Now satisfied, Harry began paying more attention to the good compartments as he continued down the train.

Continuing his expedition down the carriages, Harry made a point of looking for Lupin, while he was at it, but supposed he was too early onto the train. He quickly confirmed that barely any seats were taken. He waved cheerfully at Oliver Wood, who was reading the latest statistics on Puddlemere United plays, and – old memories fresh in his mind – popped in to say hi to the solitary Cedric Diggory, who was holding the compartment for the Hufflepuff crowd and looked very surprised to see him.

"Potter!" The older boy exclaimed, settling back down in his seat. "You surprised me. What can I do for you?"

"Nothing much," Harry grinned. "I just thought I'd say hi. I've only ever really spoken to you on the pitch, you know. Hope your holidays went well?"

Cedric, still confused, nonetheless nodded receptively. "Yeah, things were okay. Dad had me go into the Ministry for 'work experience'; he says he can get me a place when I graduate, so I followed him around for a few days."

Harry blinked, startled. Somehow he'd never really considered that Cedric might have had future plans, and wasn't that an awkward realisation. "Oh. I didn't realise you wanted to go into politics."

"Not politics," Cedric protested. "It's more the administration. I'm, er, not convinced yet anyway, but I'm keeping my options open."

Harry remembered what Cedric's father had been like, and thought he understood.

"The Department of Magical Games and Sports?" he inquired.

Cedric shrugged. "Now that wouldn't be too bad. I mean, that's also something I'm looking into. I actually spent time in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, which is where Dad works. It wasn't so horrible."

"I suppose," Harry agreed doubtfully. Cedric certainly didn't look excited. "Were you thinking of Quidditch or something instead?"

Cedric shook his head. "I may have had that dream once, but I've played opposite you and Charlie Weasley for too long. Being an Auror might be fun, I suppose. I'm actually interested in teaching."

"Oh," said Harry politely. " _Oh_. You mean, like, at Hogwarts?"

Cedric looked up at him, a mite curious. "You're not going to hassle me over it? You're a rare one, Potter. I'm not sure, mind. I haven't even passed my O.W.L.s yet. Professor Sprout will give me Careers Advice later this year."

Harry nodded enthusiastically, "I think that's a really good idea, Ced- uh, Diggory. You'd make a great teacher. I...huh. I was thinking, I might start a club, this year, or maybe next year. Something like a Defence Association. Do you think you might be interested?"

Cedric looked astonished. "Why me?"

_Because I don't want you to be killed by Voldemort again? Because I owe you something? Because you seem like a good guy, and I'd like to get to know you as a person, and not just a competitor or corpse?_

"Why not?" Harry asked.

"Fair enough," said Cedric. "Let me know when you pull it together."

Just then another older Hufflepuff arrived at the door behind Harry and carefully squeezed past.

"I guess I'll catch you later then," said Harry, and saw himself out. "Oh, and do you know the Patronus Charm? You might want to look it up; I have a feeling we're going to need it this year."

Harry left a confused Cedric and his curious housemate behind him, continuing into the next carriage before deciding that was far enough down the train. He eyed the compartment in front of him with satisfaction; it had everything he and his friends tended to look for.

West-side, platform-side, so they could wave goodbye to the Weasleys. Last compartment in the carriage for more privacy. Other end of the carriage to the bathrooms, privacy again.

He stepped in rapidly and settled into the deep seats comfortably.

Slightly anxious, Harry peeked into the luggage just before he stored the trunk – Crookshanks looked unusually grumpy, even asleep – and then sat back to read his new Runes text until his friends arrived.

* * *

"Harry!" an excitable Hermione called as she pulled open the door and bustled into his chosen compartment. "I was hoping you'd made it already. There's a rumour that the train might leave late because there's been a sighting of that dark wizard Black, out by the Platform Barrier!"

"Goodness," said Harry, secure in the knowledge that the wizard in question was still asleep in his trunk. "How amazing. Are the students getting through alright?"

"Well that's just the thing," Hermione said, settling herself into the window seat opposite. "The Ministry has cast some incredible muggle-repelling charms, and are checking each person over before they enter the barrier. The Ravenclaw prefect I spoke to said the queues out there are ginormous. If they don't all get through in time, it will be the first time since its inception that the Express leaves the station late!"

"You didn't get caught in the lines?" Harry asked politely.

"Oh, my parents and I arrived at the station before it all happened," Hermione admitted. "But we heard people talking when they started coming through again. I do hope the Weasleys make it, don't you think? They tend to cut things very fine."

Harry nodded his agreement, while Hermione made herself comfortable and settled back in the opposite seat.

"Are you really well?" Hermione asked hopefully, after she'd sorted herself out to her own satisfaction. "I mean, I barely heard from you in France and we were so busy in Diagon the other day. Are you good, Harry? Did you enjoy a relaxing holiday?"

Harry's eyebrows rose. "Yeah? I mean, nothing to write away about," except running away from home to hide the most wanted criminal in wizarding Britain and evading the Aurors all holidays, "but I enjoyed it. You?"

"Oh, I'm fine," Hermione dismissed. Then she settled down to look searchingly at his face.

Harry shuffled awkwardly.

"You're looking good, Harry," Hermione finally smiled. "Looking well, I mean. Not good, in, say, a masculine way or anything. I'm just really pleased you're, like, healthy."

"…yeah?"

"Not like you're normally _not_ healthy or anything," she continued. "Actually...we'll come back to that later. But it's good to see you're looking goo— _well._ I mean, I guess I just worried you were studying too hard over the holidays."

"Thanks, I guess? You look good too."

Her wand-hand fiddled with a lock of hair, and Harry was a little confused as she sat up straighter at his comment.

"Oh, you really think so? Uh…you mean _'well',_ too, of course. Because that's what we're talking about. Naturally."

To Harry's astonishment, she gave a little giggle and turned slightly red before the topic changed and they spend some time discussing a number of very specific points about Runes.

He eyed her curiously while Hermione's gaze flitted about the compartment and out the window, but they settled in for a casual conversation about their holiday reading until the compartment filled. First Neville, then finally Ron and Ginny appeared puffing just as the Hogwarts sounded its whistle.

"We made it," gasped Ron, dropping down into the spare seat. "Budge up Neville, it's roasting in here. I can't believe we almost missed the train."

Harry kept his thoughts to himself as his friends organised themselves around him and the train picked up speed.

Ginny sat down too, fanning her flushed face as she took a moment to catch her breath.

"Why are you both so exhausted?" Hermione asked, her curiosity winning out. "Were the lines that long?"

Ron grunted, and Ginny only blushed heavily as she looked at Harry out of the corner of her eye. Finally Ron spoke. "We got out of the line alright, they sped up near the end there. Couldn't find what they were looking for, I guess. But then Dad couldn't see you Harry, so he made us stop, even though the train was boarding. He wrote you a note. Said we had to look after you this year. Dunno what he's on about, really."

"Thanks," said Harry extending his hand. On a scrap piece of parchment, Mr Weasley had scribbled out a very thoughtful note; Harry would find Hogwarts a changed place this year, and might have to keep a sharp lookout.

"Well," said Hermione knowingly. "You all heard about the fuss about Black just now, I assume. I think it's very thoughtful of your father Ron, that he wants you to look out for your friend."

Ron shrugged. "He doesn't really need me or Ginny to look out for him though, does he? I mean, Harry's smarter than me, and Ginny'd be worse than useless."

"Thanks," said Ginny from the corner.

"It probably won't be for very long," Neville spoke up. "Gran says they've got the special Azkaban guards out looking for him, and the Aurors are on high alert."

Hermione nodded. "Black's even been on the muggle news. With everyone looking for him, he won't stay loose for long."

"We can hope," Harry lied easily. "In the meantime, I hope it won't affect the Hogsmeade visits."

The tone of the compartment changed. "Hogsmeade," Ron moaned longingly. "I've heard that Honeydukes is the best shop in the Isles. I mean, it was Fred and George who told me, but this time I believe it."

"What's that?" asked Hermione.

"It's a sweetshop," Ron murmured. "Apparently they've got _everything_. Pepper Imps, Chocoballs, caramel cubes, sugar quills…peppermint toads…blood pops and _acid_ pops...y'know, if you really want to get adventurous. All the rare ones that Diagon Alley doesn't bother with."

Hermione turned to Neville and Harry. "Won't it be nice to get out of school for a bit and explore?" she asked hopefully. "I've heard Hogsmeade has a history that goes back for centuries."

Neville looked conflicted. "I've heard that the most haunted building in England is just down the road there. I…it's probably got lots of history."

Hermione looked both intrigued and concerned. "I think I've heard of that…the Haunted Hut or something, wasn't it? I'll have to look it up, see if it's dangerous."

Harry snorted.

* * *

Harry sat back and relaxed as the time flew past. Soon the scenery outside of the window because wilder and darker. Dark clouds gathered in the sky as the train drew closer to Scotland, but the patter of feet and shrieking voices sounded down the train as usual.

Lunch came and passed, bringing with it no visit from Malfoy, to Harry's confused relief. It would awkward trying to explain that friendship to everyone in front of…everyone. Perhaps he could build up to it? Leave some hints?

But Harry knew better than to relax, and all too soon the weather worsened. Rain lashed the windows, the hallway lanterns flickered on in the gloom. The wind howled around the outside of the train. Harry fought to un-tense his muscles as his heart rate sped up in anticipation. His rising dread slowly increased.

Then the discordant screech of the train's breaks sounded, and the whistles and hisses of steam covered over the sounds of sudden student confusion.

Far more rapidly that Harry had somehow expected, the train ground to a shuddering halt.

"Are we there yet?" Asked Neville, but Hermione shook her head as she checked her watch.

"It's far too early to arrive. It's just past four. I don't know what's going on. Was there even another station en route?"

"No," said Harry and stood to peer out the windows dark as night. his stomach twinged in pain again, and he realised briefly that he'd been feeling better these past few weeks. Of course, the stress was back with the dementors now, and he clutched at his stomach absently as his mind raced. He should have thought to sit close by to where he had last time; he should have been more prepared. Where did the Dementors get on the train, after all? "Stay here," he told his friends, and Ginny stared up at him with large eyes. "I won't go far," he assured her. "I just want to make sure people stay in their compartments."

Hermione pursed her lips. "Don't you think you should leave that kind of thing to the prefects?" she asked. "I'm sure they know…"

She broke off and stared at Harry in amazement.

" _Expecto Patronum,"_ Harry murmured, and the huge, glowing figure of a full-grown stag appeared, only half fitting in the compartment. "Can you go down the train, Prongs?" Harry asked awkwardly. "Please tell everyone, 'Remain inside your compartments and latch the doors. Spell them locked if you can.'"

"Remain inside your compartments and latch the doors. Spell them locked if you can." His own voice echoed back from the huge stag. Then Prongs turned and walked through the door to pace further down the hallway. Harry heard his own voice repeated every few steps, growing fainter as the stag moved off into the distance. "Remain inside your compartments and latch the doors. Spell them locked if you can."

His friends continued to stare at Harry in astonishment, the silence broken, surprisingly, by Neville Longbottom.

"That was a fully corporeal Patronus, Harry. When did you learn to do that?"

Harry shrugged, scratched the back of his neck and lied again. "I've seen the Professors use it sometimes when they want to send messages. But," he spared an apologetic thought for Hermione, "I was researching Azkaban last year, and when I found out about the prison I realised I really had to learn. Dementors terrify me."

He watched in detachment as his breath puffed out of his mouth in a white fog, and spied out of the corner of his eye a tiny tracing of frost form on the window corner.

"Is it just me," asked Ron, "or is it freezing around here?"

Hermione was not to be distracted. "I've come across the term, Harry, but what precisely are Dementors?"

Neville looked nervously between Harry and Hermione. "I hope you're not implying what I think you're implying, Harry."

All of a sudden, the lanterns went dark.

"Meep," squeaked Ginny nervously from her seat.

Ron frowned. "I don't get it."

Hermione's eyes grew wide, and she scrambled towards the door into the train with energy. "I'm sure the Ministry – "

She froze at the door as her foot stepped on some ice, which cracked loudly in the darkness. Standing in the doorway, his own head leaning out to gaze down the corridor, Harry was pleased to see most of the curious heads retract suddenly. Harry listened carefully, as suddenly the distant hubbub of student voices rose, then shut off as a number of doors suddenly slammed closed.

Harry sent out another Prongs, to remind the students to keep the doors locked until the lights and warmth returned.

"They're not dogs," he told Hermione distantly. "It's not like they're _tame_. And the Ministry's bloody useless if you ask me."

"Language, Harry," Hermione gasped absently. Then she rubbed her shoulders quickly. "Close the door please."

"Hang on." He stood in the darkness and stared down the corridor. The cold intensified, and soon all the distant oblongs of light disappeared as the last of the doors were locked tight.

"Harry." Someone tugged on his arm. But Harry remained under the frame of the only open door on the train, staring out into the dark. He thought he heard a rattling breath, the tread of a skeletal leg…and then realised that his friends were now huddled closely behind him, and breathing in his ears. Harry himself was already calm before he noticed it; he was in that good place again, where he was rational and in control.

"Hang on," he repeated, and waited with slow, shallow breaths.

Something moved in the darkness, and Harry slowly stepped backwards. Fingers tightened on his shoulders and robes, and Hermione was speaking very quietly and very quickly under her breath, " _Closethedoorpleaseclosethedoorpleaseclosethedoor_." The cold dove into Harry's flesh, into his bones. It hurt to breathe, faint voices screaming seemed to echo in his ears. He tried to ignore them.

Finally, Harry was certain that he heard the whisper of dark fabric on fabric, and cautiously raised his wand at the tall, hooded figure that stepped out of the dark.

"You are not welcome here," he said clearly, breaking the silence and interrupting the wails in his head.

The Dementor glided closer to him, one slimy, glistening hand protruding grossly from within the cloak. Harry wondered why it had come to his apartment again – was it his memories? His scar? It couldn't sense Padfoot in his trunk; he was a dog now. Wizard space. Et cetera.

Harry noticed absently that there were more Dementors behind it; they had travelled in a pack.

Neville gave a little wail, and clutched Harry's wand arm. Hermione whimpered, "Close the door Harry, _please_ close the door."

"Go. Away." He stared the Dementor down, but the creature still advanced. One of the girls whimpered as the slimy arm rose up, and skeletal fingers gripped the large hood as if to draw it back.

"Mummy," Ron whispered, and Neville made a choky little gasp that made Harry worried.

" _ClosethedoorHarryclosethedoor."_

The creature glided closer.

Harry sighed. " _Expecto Patronum_ ," he spoke firmly, but not loudly, and another huge, silver stag erupted out of his wand and leapt forward at the creatures.

With Prongs' presence, the cold retreated immediately, bringing little sighs to his friends' breathing, and a flush to their cheeks. The great stag advanced majestically, and the suddenly ungraceful monsters in front of him slithered to a halt in staggers and uncertainty. Prongs' second leap took him right up to the beings, and they turned and desperately sped off.

To Harry's amazement, two more Prongs' leapt out through the walls of compartments further down the train, and joined the chase. They hadn't faded away.

The lights flickered on immediately, and the whole train seemed to breathe a sigh of relief.

Harry turned away from the doorway, absently patting the hand of...someone, whoever it was, who had their hand on his forearm instead of his shoulder or elbow or the back of his robes. He took three quick steps to gaze out of the window, the frost already retreating.

There was a small, hushed clamour behind him as Harry saw his three stags glimmering gently, galloping away outside of the train, still pursuing the retreating Dementors. He turned to his friends.

"Everyone alright?"

There was a hubbub of noise.

"How did you do that?"

"Why didn't you shut the door?"

"Why did they run away?"

"What was that animal?"

"…I'm so cold." That was Neville, and Harry turned in concern to see his friend, still pale and shaking, barely staying upright as he still clutched Harry's elbow with a death grip.

His parents and the cruciatus, Harry thought with regret. Of course Neville had horrible memories.

Harry swore.

"Here Nev, have some chocolate. Sorry mate." Harry busied himself looking after his friends, dragging out a few stray chocolate frogs, while the sounds of life in the train slowly built up again. He had just conjured a third tin mug, and absently melted another chocolate frog into it with the tip of his wand when there was a clatter of noise behind him.

The door slid open, surprising them all in the aftermath of the Dementors, but it was only Lupin making his way down the train. "Is everyone alright in here?"

Hermione spoke up, "We'll make do. Are you a professor? Where were you when the Dementors were around? Harry here had to – "

"We're fine," Harry cut in. "I've given them chocolate. You should help the others."

Lupin's dark eyes searched the cabin, only settling briefly on Harry. "Make sure you eat your chocolate, make a little fire if you're still cold. Or do you know the Warming Charm? The train should arrive in an hour or so. Did you see the Patronus?"

"Yes," Harry spoke quickly. "It was great advice thanks, Professor. It was you, wasn't it?"

Lupin gave him a very strange look, and he could feel his friends doing the same thing from behind him. There was a little fuss behind Harry before Ron yelped a little, and he wondered who had elbowed the Weasley boy in time. Finally, the professor said, "It was good advice. I'm glad it was useful. Stay warm," and disappeared on to the next compartment.

"Harry," hissed Hermione quietly, mindful of the Professor next door. "What are you doing?"

"Keep it a secret, please? I really don't want any more attention." Harry asked. He looked at his friends slowly, one at a time.

"But – " Hermione continued, but Neville interrupted her.

"Hermione."

"You were the only one who – "

"Please?"

She sighed. "Fine. But you _will_ teach me that spell."

"Sure," Harry relaxed. It was one more danger over, and his friends now had his back.


	18. New Pathways

After the drama of the Dementors, the rest of the train ride seemed to pale in significance. Harry and his friends alighted from their compartment, still a little pale and shaky, but had no problems transferring over to the carriages that would take them up to the castle. Harry left his trunk to be collected by the castle elves, and hoped he was making the right decision.

"You _will_ teach me that spell," Hermione muttered, as they pattered over to the last thestral carriage in the line. "Harry Potter, you hear me? You _must_ teach me that spell. Yes? I _will_ learn it."

"Of course." Harry shrugged. "I'd hardly expect otherwise. You might need it this year. Just...you might have to wait until we have time."

Hermione shot him a mildly suspicious glance. "Time?"

"Yeah? Things will be a bit busy for a while, I reckon. You know, with electives this year and everything. I'll obviously teach you, just...when we're up to date on our classes and stuff."

Oddly, she still seemed disbelieving. "You really will?"

"I'm saying yes, aren't I? When we both have time, is all."

Hermione shot him one more odd look, and then seemed to relax. She smiled widely. "Thanks, Harry. Thank you!"

He returned the grin.

"I have no idea where you learnt it," she added, scrambling up into the carriage before him. "Harry? Did you get it from a book? Is it a precision spell, or power spell? How long did it take you to master? You _are_ happy to help me, aren't you?"

Harry thought darkly of dementors on the Quidditch pitch at the same time he made himself comfy on the brown leather seat opposite Hermione and Neville. He smoothed his robes down distractedly. "Yeah? Obviously? I mean...this is important to me, you know?

"What is?"

Harry shrugged with one shoulder. "Well, I thought keeping you safe from Dementors and all that is pretty high up my priority list."

For some reason, Hermione blinked very rapidly all of a sudden. "...Really?"

Harry glanced around the carriage and nudged Neville with his elbow. "Neville and Ron too, if they're keen. Hogwarts will feel a bit different this year, I think." He thought darkly of previous timelines. "Maybe a bit dangerous."

"Oh," Hermione settled back into her seat looking a little subdued. "Well, I'm sure Professor Dumbledore has everything under control Harry."

"...Of course, of course." He shot a supportive smile Ron's way, the red-head staring at him in some kind of confused bemusement.

Harry continued. "Just...only when we manage to find time, okay? I mean, school-work comes first, right?"

"Well, obviously," Hermione shot him another smile and seemed to sit up straighter. Probably her eagerness to learn, Harry figured.

There was a jolt as the carriage started rolling forward, towards the castle proper.

"How are you feeling about your options, anyway, Harry?"

"Yeah? Good, I guess. I mean, I think we'll be spending quite a lot of time together this year."

His best female friend sat upright in her seat and fiddled fussily with a crease in her robe for a minute. "You think? That...I guess that would be nice, you know. I'll help you out with your theory homework, of course, as long as you help me with my spell-casting too."

The carriage felt cooler as it moved into the shadow of Hogwart's, and Harry leaned back and looked forward to the year beginning.

* * *

Once there, Harry and Hermione were taken aside by Professor McGonagall and walked up to her office, where, to Hermione's astonished surprise, she informed them that they had chosen to take the same electives.

"I expect great things from the both of you," their stern Head of House admitted, "so I know that there will be no frivolous use of these devices while they are with you."

Harry and Hermione held a time-turner each, their hands gently cupping the little golden trinkets as they stood on the stone in front of McGonagall's wide desk.

"Miss Granger, I hope you appreciate the fact that I personally vouched for your maturity and responsibility," McGonagall continued. "It is incredibly rare for any students to receive permission to attend classes with these devices, and if you break the rules or act inappropriately, it will be sullying my good reputation with the Department of Mysteries.

Hermione nodded mutely.

"Mr Potter," McGonagall turned to Harry. "I am particularly impressed with your willingness to do your research, your strong relationship with older and more experienced Gryffindors, and your ability to recommend yourself to other adults with ties in the Ministry of Magic."

Harry had spoken to Arthur Weasley by way of Percy, after all.

McGonagall continued. "In the same way that I have put my professionalism and reputation on the line for Miss Granger here, Mr Weasley has put his Ministry position and reputation at risk for you."

Harry hadn't quite realised it was such a big deal. He'd have to be more careful than he'd thought.

"I am particularly surprised that you succeeded in this persuasion, since it is almost unheard of for Ministry employees to offer their recommendation to anyone outside of their immediate family." She paused. "Although I'm sure your positive influence on the youngest Mr Weasley did help to put you in good standing with his parents. I myself have only ever recommended two other Gryffindor students for this opportunity, and am incapable of recommending two students at a time for this privilege. I hope you appreciate how lucky you both are."

Two students nodded.

"I cannot emphasise this enough." McGonagall leaned forward. "These time-turners _must_ remain a secret from all of your acquaintances, and must not be misused in any way. Furthermore, you must agree before I let you step out of this room: you will never attempt to change time while you use these devices. You have both done your research regarding the history of Eloise Mintumble."

"Yes, Professor," Harry and Hermione both spoke solemnly.

"And you will ensure that you will never allow your two selves to meet." The older woman stared sternly at the teenagers before her. "Finally, to reiterate, you will never attempt to travel further than five hours back."

"Yes, Professor."

Professor McGonagall finally relaxed, allowing a small, proud smile creep onto her otherwise stern face.

"Congratulations to the both of you. It has been a number of years since Gryffindor house has had a student willing to attend all the available electives. In my memory, there have never before been two together. I'm sure you will both make me proud."

"Yes Professor. Thank you, Professor," Hermione beamed, and Harry mumbled something similar.

Their Head of House then clapped her hands twice. "Well then, you had best be running off. I understand the trouble with the Dementors slowed things down a little, but dinner will have been started. If you rush, you might catch the end of the Sorting."

After repeating their thanks, Harry and Hermione rushed out of McGonagall's office towards the Great Hall. Hermione puffed out as they hurried, "Pssst, Harry?"

"Yeah?"

She snorted softly; he assumed she was also rolling her eyes, but Harry kept his eyes on his feet as he clattered down the stairs.

"Hey! Why didn't you tell me you were applying for all of the electives? Were you being all mysterious on purpose? Mr I'm-sure-I'll-see-you-in-class-some-time? We could have done all of our pre-class readings together."

Robes flapped at little in their haste to rush to the Great Hall. Striding it out quickly, Harry didn't even pause to shrug. "Honestly? I wasn't sure if I'd get permission. My grades aren't usually as good as yours you know, even if the teachers like my spell-work. My Potions grades are so abysmal, I thought McGonagall might tell me I wouldn't get in."

Harry kept pacing on. Hermione huffed, and sighed, and then panted due to shortness of breath. "I still think you should complain about Professor Snape. The whole class knows he doesn't like you."

"I honestly don't really mind it that much. It feels familiar."

Hermione snorted. "Professor Snape bullying you and encouraging the Slytherins to take pot-shots at you feels 'familiar'?"

"Sure," Harry agreed. "If Snape started treating me rationally, I'd think he was planning something."

" _Professor_ Snape, Harry. It does affect us all, you know. All of Gryffindor loses those points together."

Harry focussed on going down the stairs. "And I get them back for you all in the other classes, and Quidditch."

Hermione strode off the bottom step. "If you're not going to complain, I won't mention it myself. But back to this year: should I make us a joint study schedule? Do you have a planner? Did you buy all the textbooks?"

Harry slowed down as they approached the doors to the Great Hall. "Probably not, yes, and yes. Although we might need to double up on some of the library books for homework later on. Hang on, let's catch our breath and we can sneak in quietly."

Having taken a moment, Harry stepped up and opened the door to the Great Hall just a crack. Hermione craned around him to also get a glimpse of the Sorting from behind the doors. The light in the huge room was brilliant; the familiar hundreds or thousands of candles were flickering, guttering, blossoming brilliantly under the ceiling. Almost all of the students were already seated in the four long tables that lined the room.

"Williams, Lucretia," was called up by Professor Flitwick, and promptly sorted into Hufflepuff.

"Just in time," he whispered to Hermione, although he felt a little distressed to have missed the Sorting Song. He still somehow felt it was a great barometer for how much he was changing time as he went along.

"Go on in," Hermione hissed behind him, and the door shut behind them with a quiet click as they stepped noiselessly into the room.

"Woolf, Thaddeus," went into Ravenclaw, and by the time Harry and Hermione had snuck into the seats saved by Neville and Ron, "Yarwood, Corbin," was settling himself into the Hufflepuff table proudly.

"What's going on with you two?" Ron muttered as Harry straightened up his robes, but Harry's reply cut off as Professor Dumbledore stood up to speak.

"Welcome," the headmaster beamed, and Harry thought he made for a marvellous sight with the candlelight flickering all over his long silver beard.

But Harry listened with less enthusiasm as the headmaster went on to explain that the Dementors of Azkaban were to be stationed around Hogwarts for the duration of the year or until the notorious criminal, Sirius Black, was recaptured, whichever came first. New Head Boy, Percy Weasley, looked both proud and slightly terrified with the responsibility of making sure that none of the younger, more foolhardy students attempted to challenge them.

Harry pondered on how his perspectives had changed. Last time around, Percy had simply looked like a prat, all swollen up with authority. But with his own advanced age, Harry could look past the obvious to read at what Percy was feeling underneath. He wondered if the rest of the family knew Percy that well: did Bill and Charlie think Percy a heartless, ambitious fool like Ron and the twins did?

Harry's mood improved as was introduced as the new staff members were introduced, and noticed a small group of second-year Hufflepuffs clapping particularly hard as Lupin rose to make a small bow. Harry supposed that they had sat in his compartment for the train ride in. Harry himself clapped politely, but hopefully managed to avoid drawing too much attention to himself. But when Hagrid was introduced, Harry and his fellow Gryffindors roared with approval, clapping and stamping the floor loudly. Poor Hagrid stared fixedly at the table with a ruddy, flushed face and a wide, self-conscious grin.

The meal zoomed past with great speed, leaving Harry unable to name anything he ate. It had been a long day, full of surprises, and now all he wanted was to return to his dormitory and make sure that Sirius was alright in his compartment. He hoped that Crookshanks wouldn't be too grumpy with him, having been Apparated again earlier that day. Harry groaned. He hoped that the Hogwarts House Elves didn't magic the trunks up into the bedrooms, or Crookshanks would be – literally – spitting mad.

Making excuses to his friends, Harry pocketed some of the most convenient warm food and got the password off Percy so he could sneak back to the Gryffindor tower early.

* * *

Sirius, to Harry's most heartfelt relief, had noticed nothing unusual at all during the day except a strange shaking he attributed to a muggle truck rattling by outside the 'building'. Kreacher had delivered lunch with no problems, and Sirius was wondering if he could borrow some of Harry's old books. Crookshanks looked a little more suspicious of Harry, especially when he saw Harry's guilty face, but allowed himself to be mollified by the insides of a lovely mince pie.

The three of them chatted for a while, just as they often did at Grimmauld Place, before Harry made his apologies and rose to leave.

"Did you want to practice the Fidelius once more before you head off?" Sirius asked curiously.

"Just once then," Harry conceded, and almost succeeded in casting the charm on the feather quill before it failed on the sixth incantation.

"You're improving," noted Sirius mildly, as Harry scowled once more. "A few days ago you could barely manage three, and you had a bit of a resonance going there for a bit as well."

Harry ran his hand through his hair. "Yeah, well, you're being kind. I had hoped I would be able to do it by now. It's been over a week, you know."

Sirius scoffed. "Pup. If the Fidelius was easy enough to learn in a week, don't you think every wizarding home in Britain would have used it during the war? Trust me when I say you're doing bloody well."

A short time later Harry finally went to bed, sneaking into the canopy of his bed curtains without any of his dorm mates being the wiser. Crookshanks had followed him out, and promptly took over Harry's pillow as his resting place of choice.

"Oi!" complained Harry, but then Crookshanks turned to stare. A still-guilty Harry let the Kneazle have it, merely tucking the sheets up by his neck and falling asleep on the mattress. He'd made it through the day, and Crookshanks had done a stellar job of distracting Sirius from the move. Harry was still contemplating the fallout from the day when sleep claimed him, and he was out like a light.

* * *

The next day dawned far brighter and earlier than anyone in the Gryffindor tower was comfortable with. Harry, of course, woke up early and practised his Occlumency training while his dorm mates woke later and began to move around.

Small sounds of panic and frustration finally made it beyond Harry's curtains as he rose from his meditative trance.

"What's wrong?" he called, drawing the bed hangings enough to let a generous crack of light in. "Nev? Is that you?"

"Morning Harry," his gentle friend replied. "Sorry if I woke you. I've just realised that I've left Trevor at home. Do you think Gran would send him to me via Owl Post if I asked?"

"Er, probably not," Harry admitted. "I don't think it would be safe for anyone involved."

At exactly the same time, Ron guffawed. "You left your pet at home? How could you manage that? I'd never…oh."

Harry turned his eyes to Rob, as Neville replied with a very patient tone, "Well, what did you forget, Ron?"

But Harry thought he already knew what Ron had forgotten, given the redhead's utterly pale face and beaded forehead.

"My wand?" Ron squeaked out. "I might have left it in the car?"

The chaotic noises in the dormitory halted as all the boys turned to stare at Ron in astonishment. Seamus let go the sock he was holding, and Dean's suitcase lid suddenly dropped on his head.

"Your wand?" Neville confirmed. "You definitely haven't put it in a safe place, and just forgotten about it?"

"Naw," Ron groaned. "I was playing with it in the car, so Mum made me put it down or she said she'd owl McGonagall to be more strict with me this year. But then Fred grabbed it and said he'd look after it, and I caught him dropping it into the boot. I don't think anyone got it back out."

To Crookshanks' sleepy disgust, Harry rose out of bed. "Well, why don't go check with your brothers first, and then write a letter to your mum if it turns our you're right. Fortunately, we have Divination and Care of Magical Creatures today, and you won't need your wand for that. I'll share mine with you during Transfiguration, if you're desperate."

"Mate," Ron said bleakly. "You _would_?"

Harry remembered the culture of wand sharing, or rather _not_ sharing, as he and Hermione had learnt last year. But it was too late - he'd offered, and besides, Ron was still one of his best friends, despite everything.

"Mate, that's really good of you. I'll just, I'll go now, I think. I might have to…I'll let you know if I need to take you up on that."

The day continued for Harry along that tone, although it went significantly better for him than it did for poor Ron, who needed to leave breakfast early to urgently owl home to his mother.

It was both familiar and refreshingly new to pace the corridors towards the North Tower, and Harry led his friends to settle at their regular small table in the Divination room without remembering to ask if they had their own preferences. He paused, half into one of the little chintz seats, and shot a mildly embarrassed look at Hermione, Ron and Neville to see if they minded.

No one even met his eyes, busy as they were with settling themselves down just as Harry had; the classroom filling up behind them. Harry experienced a minor moment of dissonance when he realised his friends were perfectly happy to follow his lead. Last timeline, Harry blinked, decisions were more of a group effort. Had he done something to change that?

His musings were interrupted when Neville sneezed from the heavy scent of incense that lingered in the room, and Ron muttered something about the heat; from there, Divination class continued pretty much in line with Harry's expectations.

It was only when Professor Trelawny once again predicted his early demise, based off the Grim in his teacup, that Harry's thoughts snapped to alertness and he found himself strangely and suddenly interested in tessomancy, and through that, divination in general.

"What do you think, Hermione?" Harry asked quietly, leaning towards her pouffe after Trelawney had moved on.

She sniffed repressingly. "Early days yet, "Hermione replied, "but the teacher seems a bit woolly to me. I mean, beaded tassles on shawls and scarves? Please."

Ron spoke up a little more loudly than he probably should have. "I dunno, though. She got it right that Neville would break the teacup, didn't she?"

To Harry's amusement, Hermione shuffled a little awkwardly in her seat. "Well," she shot an apologetic look Neville's way. "Neville _has_ got a bit of a reputation around the castle. And he already showed he wasn't doing great in this room; he did sneeze almost as soon as he came in."

Neville blushed.

Keeping it to himself, Harry was nevertheless still convinced that…perhaps…there was more to the class than he'd thought. The falcon. The club. The skull. The Grim. He'd had _all four_ signs in his teacup before too, hadn't he? Perhaps…perhaps this would be worth looking into.

He made a mental note to look up some slightly decent library books on the subject and rejoined the conversation.

He was feeling very pleased with themselves as they all left the classroom, until Hermione walked up to his shoulder and asked him how he had managed to sneak off between classes for a Turn back without anyone noticing at all.

"You don't even look like you're worried about it," she marvelled, and Harry was proud of his poker face as he managed to smile calmly at her.

"It was part of my plan," he forced out. In the meantime, his brain was shrilling _screwed up already, screwed up already_ in some kind of non-stop repeated cycle. Five minutes later, he excused himself to go to the bathroom.

* * *

Turning back to nine o'clock, Harry noticed his stomach rumbling with hunger as he dashed into the Muggle Studies room just before class began.

A young, blondish woman stood at the front of the room, smiling kindly as Harry slipped into a seat next to Hermione.

"Welcome everyone, to a new year at Hogwarts," the young-looking witch smiled brightly. "It's a wonderful thing to have so many students interested in Muggle Studies, and I'm sure we'll all work well together and enjoy our year."

Harry glanced around the room at the students he would study with. A handful of third-year Gryffindors he didn't know very well, and a large number of Hufflepuffs dotted around the room. It was popular enough as an elective to need at least two classes, Harry assumed.

"I'm Charity Burbage, Head of Faculty," the friendly professor meanwhile continued. "I am pleased to welcome you all to what I personally believe is the single most practical elective course that Hogwarts currently has to offer. I'm sure that we all come to this subject with a wide variety of knowledge, so I hope that my plans for the year will include something for everyone." She beamed towards Hermione, a prominent muggle-born student, before looking at Ernie Macmillan, an outspoken pureblood. "I feel that the best way to include all of you in my classes is to follow a comparative lesson structure, so we'll begin as I mean to go on, and start off with a question that most of you should know.

"Alright class, quills down for the moment please. Who can tell me what wizards use to clean their teeth?"

A number of uninterested hands slowly rose, and the still smiling Burbage picked someone from the back row.

"Please, Mr Carter?"

"The common household teeth cleaning spell?" a laconic Hufflepuff replied. "Sometimes known as the 'spit 'n' shine'."

"Correct," Burbage beamed. "Take two points. Any other suggestions?"

All the hands dropped, the correct answer being taken. Slowly, Harry raised his hands. "Although it's not its original purpose, I've seen _scourgify_?"

"Two points to Gryffindor," said the chirpy woman. "Someone was using some naughty words, were they? The Scouring Charm is often used as a punishment, being unpleasant, but otherwise benign."

She clapped her hands. "Now what do young wizards do before they gain access to their wands? Keep up people, we'll get to my point in a minute."

Again, a small smattering of hands were raised, and Harry learned about Trainer Twigs, the occasionally charmed toothpick-like items that ensured dental hygiene in squibs and young children.

"Wonderful answers, people," the happy woman enthused. "But now. Consider. What if you were born as a muggle? Not only can you not cast your own spells, but you don't even know magic exists. How do you ensure that your teeth don't rot in your mouth? What have muggles come up with?"

Harry glanced at the dentists' daughter sitting beside him out of the corner of his eye. She might have missed this class, he thought, but to his astonishment she was making extensive notes on a dedicated piece of parchment.

The obvious answers were made.

"Wonderful, wonderful." Professor Burbage clapped her hands cheerfully. "And now do you see how we'll deal with this course? There is a common misconception that muggles are slower, stupider, and dumber than the average witch or wizard. But what you are actually seeing when they take time to complete simple tasks, is the obvious fact that their tasks are infinitely harder. _They cannot use magic in any form_. In this course we will cover a number of everyday undertakings, and compare the wizarding way to the mundane muggle means. During this first year we will focus on the day-to-day objectives: cooking, cleaning, communicating and travelling, and we will explore how these tasks vary throughout Britain, depending on cost, location, and demand."

Harry saw Hermione nodding thoughtfully at the practical applications, and rather thought himself that it was a logical approach.

"By the end of this year, all of you should be able to walk down any road in Britain and make small-talk successfully with a random muggle. For those of you who will continue with the course, next year will introduce you to how muggles work and play, and your O.W.L year will allow you to investigate the basics of muggle sports, games, and industries. I'm sure you will all be amazed at the creative solutions muggles have had to come up with in order to achieve simple things that witches and wizards can do with a flick of our wands. Now, let us return to the topic of 'toothbrushes'."

When the class ended sometime later, Harry was surprised to note how much he had enjoyed the lesson, despite its rather unexceptional subject. As Hermione eyed him strangely and dashed off, Harry pondered the fact that perhaps repeating familiar classes had somehow dulled his mind. Muggle Studies was new! It was fresh! Unfamiliar!

He ducked into a nearby secret passage to flip his Time-Turner over twice, and return to before nine o'clock in the morning.

* * *

The first period was not an even hour long, so he rather frustratingly had half an hour until his next class started. His stomach was still under the impression that he had missed lunch, but his first self was still in the Great Hall having breakfast, leaving Harry feeling particularly frustrated.

Then he remembered the kitchens, and ducked under his Invisibility Cloak for a quick snack, before making his way up to the sixth floor.

He arrived in the classroom with a generous amount of time to spare, and found a surprisingly full class of Ravenclaws and Hermione waiting for the Professor to arrive. Harry once again slid into the seat next to his fellow Gryffindor, and glanced curiously around the room. Unlike Professor Lupin's professional clutter, or Snape's atmospheric flasks and flagons, Professor Vector kept a very sparse room.

The walls were generally bare, although a complicated chart with lots of intersecting circles hung just behind the teacher's desk, and a huge, clean blackboard took up the rest of the room on that wall.

Harry remembered the rumours that the teacher was strict, and carefully set up his desk with his new purchases from the Hogwarts Arithmancy equipment list, before turning to Hermione and asking, "What do you know about Professor Vector, Hermione?"

She drew back from her apparently deep thought, and smiled at him absently. "Not an awful lot, I hate to admit. Percy told me heaps about the course itself, but Professor Vector is apparently relatively new to the school. I wonder if she taught elsewhere first, or if Hogwarts is her first teaching position. I've heard she is strict, of course, but how much of that is a rumour and how much is reliable I really don't have the data to say."

"Well, what can you guess?"

Hermione eyed him. "If we're speaking of probability, it seems likely that in order to teach Arithmancy at Hogwarts, Professor Vector must have completed an apprenticeship in the subject somewhere in Europe. It's at least four years long, usually more, so she is most likely to be at least twenty-three. She undoubtedly has a professional network that recommends her to the position; not only including existing Hogwarts staff, but other Arithmancers in the field are likely to think well of her too. If she has not already achieved it, she is probably working towards her Mastery while she teaches, in a specific specialisation that is either relating to spellwork or pure theory."

"Ten points to Gryffindor for pure logic," a cool, smooth voice from behind them surprised both Gryffindors. Harry looked up to see a very attractive witch standing there in dark blue robes, gazing approvingly at Hermione. Hermione blushed prettily, and murmured, while Harry stared at the teacher in surprise.

She was young, definitely the youngest teacher he had seen. She couldn't possibly be older than twenty-five. She obviously had long, dark brown hair that was tied rigorously down at the back of her head, possibly imitating Professor McGonagall in style, and her satiny caramel skin and dark lashes suggested she came from some part of the Middle East. Harry wondered if she was mixed race.

Her robes were unadorned and conservative, the excess folds hanging straight down towards the ground in swathes of fabric that nevertheless failed to hide her slender figure…and rather attractive womanly curves. He felt his mouth go dry.

How had he never paid attention to her before?

This was unexpected. Harry remained in shock as the last of the Gryffindor students rushed in and the witch – Professor Vector, he reminded himself – called for attention.

"Attention," she quite literally said, and half the class fell immediately silent. "Five points from Gryffindor," she continued after a moment, and the remaining students went quiet out of shock. "I have high expectations from all of you, which is why I will allow no wilfulness or laziness in my class. When I call for attention, I expect you to fall silent immediately and turn to face me."

Harry nodded thoughtfully. That seemed like a perfectly sensible expectation to him.

"I expect you to be ready for the start of class before I call for your attention, although since this is your first class with me, I shall allow those of you who have not yet set up your workstation to retrieve your stationery now. I assume you have all brought an abacus and a slide-rule to class with you. You have one minute."

There was a faint murmur of frustrated students, as a small number of students had to bend down to their bags and retrieve their quills and ink. Harry felt very smug sitting next to Hermione in the front row, since his worktable was already set up. He wondered briefly why the other students hadn't bothered to do the same thing. Professor Vector's requirements seemed perfectly reasonable.

After precisely one minute had passed, Professor Vector once again called for attention.

"Attention. From now one, when I instruct you to complete simple, administrative tasks such as this, I expect there to be no talking. Chatty mouths make idle minds, and this course is one that will demand your whole attention."

She took the roll efficiently, and then turned to the blackboard to continue her introduction.

"I am Professor Vector. I have over six years of experience in Arithmancy under the Master Arithmancer Rigel Rowsell. I have a comprehensive understanding of the basics of Arithmancy, but am specialising in theoretical mathemagics as I work towards my own Mastery. I expect to achieve this within another seven years."

Hermione's eyes bugged out, and she scribbled something down on her parchment, then underlined it three times. The teacher continued.

"Congratulations on choosing this most rewarding of subjects. I find Arithmancy to be one of the most applicable and useful elective courses Hogwarts offers. It is of use in weather forecasting and more complex divinations, spell creation, spell detection and analysis, and thus it also follows, spell-breaking – which you may be familiar with in the contexts of Healing and curse-breaking. It is complementary to most other branches of magic, but in conjunction with Ancient Runes, is utterly necessary for enchanting and warding. Those of you who also take Runes will later learn to appreciate how arithmantic symbolism interacts with your magical and practical rune-crafting intentions. This level of understanding, however, is obviously well beyond your capabilities for now.

"A mastery over Arithmancy is also of particular significance to any task that requires attention to geomancy, so herbologists, engineers and architects also find this worthwhile.

"Thus we will cover this first year, the history and development of not only numbers, but a variety of different numeral systems. We move on to working with algebra, geometry, trigonometry and calculus – for some reason it surprises some students that we don't focus on statistics. We later on will branch out into learning about rational and irrational numbers, transcendental numbers, and I will also be available to those who wish to independently study in their own time theoretical mathemagics if my own small speciality intrigues you.

Harry shifted slightly in his chair and sat up straighter.

"The cognitive demands for this course will be high. Ideally you have all arrived in my class with well-developed logical minds, and prodigiously good memories will not lead you astray. This first period will be devoted to ascertaining your abilities: logic, memory, and mathematical experience, since I am certain you have all entered my class with different aptitudes."

With her pale, elegant wand she tapped a stack of papers that Harry somehow hadn't noticed on her desk, and a single sheet flew out to sit in front of each student in the room.

"The test does not end. You will attempt as many questions as you are able to, skipping nothing. If you are uncertain of your answer, show your working and move on. Once the first page is complete, flip the page over, and a new set of questions will arrive. Once again, when that page is completed, return to your first page, and a new set of questions will have generated for you. Please ensure that your name is written on the top, right-hand side of the first page. There will be no homework for tonight, although you may wish to review in your textbook any questions from the test you are unsure about. Are there any questions before we begin?"

Harry thought hopefully that his Occlumency skills might help buoy his test scores a little, given that they had much improved his memory. He didn't have much confidence in his mathematic abilities: he had never bothered to review his muggle maths, and it had been many years since he had tried. He gulped loudly as the beautiful teacher strode over to her desk and leaned against it.

He picked up his quill hopefully and dipped it in the inkwell. This would be a challenging class, but sweet Merlin he was going to work hard at it.

"Begin," Professor Vector instructed in her cool, velvety voice. Harry swallowed hard and bent his head to his paper. Hermione had the edge in this class, he rather suspected, but he was determined to give her a run for her money.


	19. Time Never Waits

The entire period of Arithmancy seemed to go by very fast and yet also stretch out interminably. Harry wasn't entirely sure how well he had done on the test, and sat up to stretch and click his spine with the air of someone awakening from a deep sleep.

Oddly, Hermione didn't seem to have the same issue.

His bushy-haired friend managed to spell all her stationery up rapidly and disappeared immediately after class, presumably to travel on to a class Harry had already been to, giving him an hour or so free and alone. She was, of course, very organised and efficient...

Harry found it all very confusing. Perhaps he should have put more forethought into his schedule?

But it was too late for today, so instead, he slowly gathered his stuff and wandered out into the corridors himself. He had a bit of a break before his next scheduled class, so Harry toddled a little distance away from the Arithmancy class – no need to block the door, after all – and then found his feet slowing down, pausing, stopping.

Harry stood at the edge of the corridor and watched a number of senior students rush up and down the stone passageways rapidly, a few much smaller students – surely _he_ had never been that small, Harry thought – rushing around the castle with much more worry and panic.

Huh, he realised with mild surprise. It was still the first day of classes. First-years didn't know their way around yet.

With no particular destination in mind, Harry stepped into an empty classroom and threw on his Invisibility Cloak. There was no reason to be seen in two places at once, after all. Then he rejoined the crowd carefully.

Ten minutes later, Harry found himself wandering down the sixth-floor corridor thoughtfully. Perhaps he should put more effort into planning his classes. Or more specifically, getting to his classes. Hermione seemed to be giving him strange looks, and her scheduling certainly seemed to _efficient_ than his. But was efficiency really what he was after?

He had a free period while everyone else went to a class he'd squeeze in later, so after wandering around the library once, and finding it busier than he had thought, Harry found himself on his way to the Room of Requirement to study until lunch time. In privacy.

With class in session, the corridors were emptied of people and Harry could finally relax about not bumping into anyone. He found his strides getting longer, the Cloak flapping loosely around his ankles as his speed increased. Although he had lots of time to spare, the castle was big enough for him to want to save as much time getting about as he could, and a sneaky slip or two of cold air snuck inside his hood and cooled his neck.

He fell to the ground with a clatter.

"Merlin, Morgana and Maeve," Harry snarled. He took a moment to raise his forehead from the floor and dab gently against his nose. Bleeding. Again? Ugh. He'd gone down rather hard. It was the work of only a few moments for him to grab his wand and heal up his nose before Harry was in the position to gain some environmental awareness.

His left leg was thigh-deep in what he'd always before assumed was solid stone.

"Uh?" Harry glanced around. Yes, he was familiar with this corridor; he'd walked over this particular stone more times than he could count. "Goddamit," he muttered, pleased that at least the corridor had been empty and no one had seen or heard his fall. The hot flush of embarrassment faded somewhat, and he turned his attention to his actual predicament.

Tilting his weight towards his right leg, Harry cursed again. Somehow or rather, the stone had _solidified_ again. He spent a solid ten minutes trying to spell himself out of the mess.

When he finally stood, Harry found himself muttering frustrated words under his breath. He'd had a few awkward moments through the years with trick stairs and fake doors and all, but this particular issue was new and unwelcome. He must be more tired than he thought. What had he been doing before all the indignity anyway?

The Room of Requirement. Right, he finally remembered. Since staying _out of sight_ was seeming like a really good thing right now.

Without a working Map yet, it was about the only place he could guarantee he would never meet people. He limped into the Room somewhat tenderly.

* * *

Harry was exhausted. The castle wasn't the brightest of places, what with the medieval windows and the thick stone walls, so the position of the sun was not helping his body clock. His body was currently insisting that it was almost time for dinner. But he still had six or so hours to go.

With a sigh, Harry pulled his Arithmancy textbook out of the school bag he routinely carried with him and slid bonelessly into a seat at the table in the centre of the room. How was he doing to manage the year? If he had been younger and more excitable, this would all have seemed like an awesome, exciting adventure. The original Harry at thirteen would probably have used the Time-Turner to drive Malfoy crazy, and pull pranks so that Snape would have always seen his alibi.

The more mature, forward-thinking Harry could already tell that the exhaustion was going to pile up quickly. He was going to have to schedule in extra sleep – perhaps an afternoon nap of some kind? Where would he go? Hermione was definitely going to catch him this evening and suggest that they go to their classes together. And what about Sirius?

Harry flicked his textbook open to the first chapter thoughtlessly, ignoring the echo of pain in his leg. Sirius was still under the assumption that Harry and he were still hiding in the Grimmauld Place living room. That would work for a while, but his godfather had really perked up since Crookshanks had moved in, and sooner or later was going to start trying to explore his old house.

Sick of the whirling thoughts, Harry tugged twice – quite hard – at the hair on his head and then shoved the distractions to one side. His forehead creased.

He sank into his study. As Harry's eyes scanned the introductory page again, the dry and factual words sank into his psyche with barely a ripple. He'd read the book before, of course. Over the holidays, when he still had time and the energy to prepare for the manic year ahead.

Even now, as familiar as they were, the tedious descriptions were a struggle to wade through. Technical. Somewhat wordy. Theoretical.

But, as Harry's dry fingertips slide down the page with his eyes, and the gentle scratching sound of pages turning filled the otherwise silent room, Harry found a sense of enjoyment. A _thrill_ of interest. He sank into the peace and calm of a focused mind. He _enjoyed_ wrestling with the new content.

Harry was _so thirsty_ for new knowledge. He wondered if this was how Hermione felt all the time.

Then, after Harry had finished reading the chapter, he attempted to review the parts of the earlier test that he could remember. He hadn't done as great as he had hoped, good memory aside.

Harry hoped, somewhat optimistically, that the attractive Professor Vector would not hold his mistakes against him.

Question seventeen had been the first to give him trouble, thought Harry with a creased brow. He couldn't be tripping over that particular problem for long.

Recalling what he could, Harry nibbled the tip of his quill as he attempted to rework the question. The first chapter in the book was mildly helpful, but putting the knowledge into practice was going to be the challenge.

Harry huffed a little as he bent his head over his parchment. He couldn't indulge in this for long; there were many other things that could do with his attention.

Just, first, he needed to attend to this grudge with his maths.

* * *

Sometime later, having resolved the most immediate of Arithmancy problems, Harry considered the state of his upcoming year once more.

He had a lot to juggle.

Even Hermione had grown stressed because of her excessive homework last time, and even with the very best of intentions and an extra seven years, Harry's time had never been as well-managed as hers. Possibly because she actually was more intelligent than he was. She simply learned things faster, and needed less time to study.

He just couldn't keep up with her pace.

Not to mention Quidditch practice would start up any day, taking away even more time from his research.

Harry scratched a hand absently through his hair, kneading at his tight shoulders before sitting up straight, stretching out his back with a tension-releasing _click._

Ironically, the worst of his time-management problems, he'd given to himself. He'd implied to Sirius he would learn to become an Animagus this year. Needed the learn the Fidelius charm – to use as soon as Kreacher reported that the Ministry watchers had left Grimmauld Place, he could sneak out – past the Dementors somehow – and Apparate over to Sirius's house to put up the Charm.

Then there were his plans for the dementors. Skeeter. He still needed to find Luna a club where she would be welcomed.

Plus, the Defense Club he'd mentioned to Ced-Diggory?

Harry gnawed at his thumb absent-mindedly.

Sliding down further into the uncomfortably upright seat, Harry scowled heavily, thinking about the Dementors, and pulled up an empty piece of parchment on which to scrawl himself a note.

 _Write to lawyer: complain about Ministry control over Dementors on train,_ he scribbled out. The dignified, if somewhat intimidating man had left a good impression on Harry, and he thought he would put in a solid effort at having them removed from the school. Which wasn't to say that Harry thought he would be successful when Dumbledore hadn't been, but it was worth a try.

His thoughts drifted.

If all went well, Sirius, Remus and Pettigrew would never have their little shown-down by the Whomping Willow this year. The Ministry would need a good reason not to bring the Dementors back to Hogwarts for two school years as a row, after all.

Harry bit back a curse as he realised he also needed to plan to spend time with Remus, somehow persuading him of Sirius' innocence. As soon as the rat had left Hogwarts, Harry wanted Sirius to go overseas for healing and rest. It would be best if the werewolf went with him, but that was something Harry would have to deal with. In the meantime, the Fidelius…

Harry dropped his quill in his shock. Fingertips trembled. With all his well-meaning plans, and Apparation and broom-flying, studying and planning, he had forgotten to have his wand posted to Hogwarts via owl. He'd carried it onto the Hogwarts Express himself.

His forehead developed a thick sheen of sweat. If his wand was now Traceable, how could he set up the Fidelius Charm on a house in muggle London? The Ministry would even have a record of which spell he had used:

 _Dear Mr Potter,_ the letter would read,

_We have received intelligence that your wand performed a Fidelius Charm at number 12 Grimmauld Place this evening at [insert time]._

_As you know, underage wizards are not permitted to perform spells outside school…_

Harry's heart stuttered into a galloping beat, faster than it had been since he'd last faced the Basilisk and managed his Occlumency. He could hear the whooshing thud in his ears, and there was the slight tunnelling of vision that he'd got before when he was stressed. The swallowed the lump in his throat. Loudly.

But wait. There was a chance his wand was fine. Harry had Apparated around the Platform barrier, had he not? If the Trace was on the Express, then he was screwed, but if students were tagged when they walked through the wall…

He would have to test his theory.

Sometime soon, Harry realised, he would have to sneak out past Hogsmeade, beyond the Dementors again, and into a non-magical residential area like Little Whinging. George had confirmed last year that the Ministerial Trace was confused by the presence of an adult wizard and high levels of ambient magic, but if Harry Apparated somewhere, and the Trace was on him, then how would he get back to Hogwarts?

He scribbled a few ideas down on the same piece of parchment, then set it alight with a jab. It wouldn't do for anyone to discover it and learn what Harry had planned. It seemed what he needed first was a sure-fire way to sneak around everyone.

"Oh. Of course," he suddenly muttered, and slapped his own forehead. "What I need is the Map." But he had his signed permission slip to Hogsmeade, and who could predict what the twins would or wouldn't offer this year? Fortunately for Harry, he had a Marauder hidden in his Trunk.

He sat back with a sigh, having resolved on the first step of his plan. Building his own Map would take more of his valuable time, but with his Invisibility Cloak, his Time-Turner and his Trunk…

His thoughts broke off as his gaze raked the room in which he was sitting. Wasn't this the Room of Requirement? It was huge.

Great streams of light streamed in from windows high above him, nothing like the rest of the dark, medieval castle that he had been complaining about earlier. Luscious tapestries with delicate detailing and bright colours lined the walls, illuminated by the windows and the occasional lanterns, that cast little pools of light in spots beneath where they hung.

The ceiling was high – so high he hadn't even noticed it before, and distant beams of polished wood rested far above his eye-level.

But what drew Harry's gaze – the second, more evaluative gaze – were the tall, solid bookshelves, dozens of them, over eight feet high, standing like they could hold up the sky. Harry himself was seated at a little two-seater study table, tucked neatly into an alcove right in front of the door. But on every other surface there were books: textbooks, encyclopaedias, instruction manuals and more. It looked like the library.

Harry rose to his feet in stunned wonder.

What had he wished for when he entered the Room? 'A good place to study'? No. 'A good place to study _everything_.' The Room had exceeded his imagination.

Eagerly, Harry paced done the closest bookshelves. Books on Arithmancy figured prominently. Then the Runes section began, followed by...

Harry was caught surprised and uncomfortable at the rows and rows of Divination texts he came upon next. _Scrying for the Uninitiated_ , he saw on one book spine. _Seeing the Unseeable. Divination for Dummies. One Hundred and One Uncomfortable Truths about Divination. Tarot for the Talentless._

"What?" Harry found himself squeaking in disbelief. He flipped through the book in sceptical curiosity. The pages felt thick, dry and heavy on the tips of his fingers, and he blinked uncomfortably as thick dark text stared back at him from a randomly opened page. Apparently not every wizard was a "Seer" - with a capital S - but everyone... Harry stopped, and reread the whole paragraph carefully again. "Everyone could use divination magic with the right preparation."

Who knew?

Harry felt his right eyebrow rise in shock without any conscious control from him. How many years had he - 'studied' perhaps wasn't the right word, um - _taken Divination classes_ and yet never known this? What else did Trelawny miss out? What precisely had he been supposed to learn during his years of lessons? The Room was a treasure.

It made Harry curious and excited. What exactly could this place do?

A small, pulsing rhythm began in the small of his neck, and Harry noticed idly that his heart rate had increased, with excitement this time, not panic. Eyelids blinked rapidly as his feverish gaze darted, taking in the view.

Harry wondered, all excited, if he could hide Sirius in here, but… then changed his mind.

When Sirius decided to exit Harry's trunk, either this strange library or Harry's dorm would be mostly the same. Sirius would realise immediately that Harry had lied to him, would immediately find his way out into a part of the castle he recognised, would go crazy in trying to kill the Rat. But that didn't mean the Room was useless to Harry.

He nibbled his lip thoughtfully while his mind raced; there was a thought there…something really _clever_ would come any minute…

Neville had done the most with it, Harry soon recalled, during that horrible year that the Death Eaters ruled Hogwarts, and Dumbledore's Army and the Resistance had been forced out of their dorms. They hadn't really had a chance to chat: Voldemort at the gates, Resistance fighters pouring in, the Horcrux Hunt nearing its end.

Harry thought for a moment, recalled from the depths of his mind all the details he could. His Occlumency was marvellous, he noted absent-mindedly. His memories were so clear now! He and Neville had barely mentioned the Room at all.

But _someone_ had said, "You've got to ask it for exactly what you need…close the loopholes…"

He'd been talking to Seamus.

_Exactly what he needed._

For a glorious moment, Harry imagined a network of passages, secret pathways behind every portrait to help him move through the school. But no, someone had always had to stay in the Room…

Had to stay in the Room.

Harry looked around him once more, this time critically. This library was certainly pretty large. It was certainly bigger than number four Privet Drive. And the Room could get bigger, he remembered. The Room of Hidden Things simply dwarfed this current library.

Could it remake Grimmauld Place?

A few seconds later, Harry stood outside the room again, heart beating loudly, stomach clenching. This might be the single biggest discovery of his year, if it worked.

He paced up and down the hallway, mind focussed. Grimmauld Place, secret passages, a place to hide Sirius.

He stopped pacing in front of the wall. He looked up.

The small door had appeared in the stone wall; rough, dark wood was deeply inset in a stern-looking stone frame. Harry reached out with one hand, almost shaking. The door was cold and rough on his skin. With a soft and gentle push, he opened it with anticipation.

A cavernous darkness lay before him, and Harry stood blinking in the sudden gloom.

In fact, as he stepped forward under the doorframe, Harry had to light a _lumos_ to peer further into the…tunnel. Stretching sullenly out of the pitch-black, the floor was stone before his feet, the walls pressed in close, the ceiling low. There was no source of light from within the room that he could see.

Harry took another two steps forward.

When the door closed before him with a click, Harry was enclosed in darkness; only the light on the tip of his wand let him see anything. Slightly confused, Harry stepped forward in the dimness, heels clicking a little on the bare stone as he walked. It felt creepy, he had to admit. But not as bad as some places he'd been.

Suddenly the corridor turned a corner, and Harry found himself quickening his pace cautiously. A tall lamppost grew out of the darkness, glimmering dimly from within its dirty soot-covered glass.

As his hurried footsteps pattered forwards, the air grew lighter around him. The narrow passageway fell away as the stone walls stopped without warning. Harry stood in a huge kind of underground cavern. Raising his wand, its small light swelling as he did so, Harry stared up into the inky blackness, but no ceiling could be seen. All that remained was one lonely lamppost glimmering weakly back at him.

Despite the lack of forest, Harry found the sight familiar. Something about a wardrobe, he thought he remembered. Hermione had mentioned the book once, as a classic. He walked up to its base in the silence.

As he approached the tall iron post, its true height soon became apparent. But instead of staring up, up, up at the lamp light, Harry found himself caught by a smudge in its shadow. Was that a…direction post? Road signs? Street labels?

A small wooden post was rammed into the stone, and hundreds of arrows with writing on them were stuck to its body.

 _Gryffindor Tower, Library, Transfiguration, Ancient Runes. Greenhouse Three._ More destinations that Harry could read at a glance.

They were directions around the castle. Harry lifted his arm, his wand-light shone brighter, and he saw through the gloom scores of dark passages leading away. He looked back at the signpost, until finally, near the bottom he found the label he wanted. _ROR: Grimmauld Place._

It had worked.

Harry sped along the secret passage in question for only a few minutes until he soon came to a door in the corridor. It was old and dark brown, and the doorknob looked strangely evil and unwelcoming, but he opened it up without hesitating.

Then he stopped.

The Grimmauld Place hallway stood open before him. The musty curtains that hid Sirius' mother lay ahead, and the hatstand Tonks hated on his left. The house also smelled musty, like he and Kreacher hadn't made much headway on the cleaning, but the room was more brightly lit with sunlight than the deep dark stone corridor behind him.

It would be easy to stand in wonder, to double-check the whole of the house, but with a start Harry realised he'd forgotten the time and a quick _tempus_ had him retreating with haste.

 _Entrance Hall_. The sign sent him jogging off rapidly towards the first floor, where he emerged five minutes later somewhat short of breath. A broom cupboard he had never noticed before swung closed behind him as Harry snuck out from his hiding place. If his good luck was holding, no one noticed his entrance.

* * *

His friends were just stepping into the Great Hall for lunch, when Harry jogged up to meet them, and lunch passed with the agonising slowness he should have suspected: he was bursting to share his good news, but could not tell a soul.

Lunch tasted fine, nothing special, he assumed, since Hermione kept distracting him by sending significant looks from over the table. She was complaining about Divination to Ron and Neville, to Harry's surprise, until he realised that first period hadn't been so long ago for them and his predicted demise was still very new news.

Harry's mind meanwhile was stuck on his seemingly inexhaustible To-Do list. Sirius, the Fidelius, Arithmancy, Runes, the dementor problem...his forehead creased again...Divination, becoming an animagus, Quidditch...What should he focus on _first_?

"Dementors," exclaimed Harry, making Neville snort juice out his nose.

"You think you'll be killed by Dementors?"

"Er, no." Harry backtracked. "Wait, maybe? It doesn't seem unlikely, now that I think about it. What's the Ministry thinking, having those things in a school anyway?"

Ron seemed very sympathetic, patting Harry on the back. "We'd look after you well, mate, if it happens. Fudge would definitely be fired if they do suck your soul out."

"Technically he wouldn't be dead," Hermione frowned, although whether it was at the Dementors presence, Divination, or Ron's lack of empathy Harry couldn't tell. "His body would live on, autonomous bodily functions wouldn't fail. Harry just wouldn't be in there. But I'm sure you'll be fine, Harry," she hurried added. "That Professor seemed very woolly to me."

"But the Dementors though," Neville worried, still mopping up his juice. "Gran says they're not really under anyone's control."

The group all flashed a quick glance Harry's way. He'd said the same thing, of course, on the Hogwarts Express.

Neville continued. "They're supposed to eat happy memories, and drive people mad, in the end. Do you think the Greenhouses are safe?"

"Why not?" Ron asked obliviously. "Dumbledore said they weren't allowed in the castle now, didn't he?"

"But the greenhouses aren't in the castle, Ron," Hermione pointed out. "Plus they're closer to the Forest. Perhaps you had better not go there, Neville, unless you walk down with a teacher."

Neville shivered. "You reckon the Dementor effects could be felt from down there?"

Harry sighed. "In a few days we'll all notice the Dementor effects from up here. It's a piss poor idea, I just don't know what the Ministry is thinking."

"Harry." Hermione frowned at him again over his language but allowed herself to be distracted. "They are here to protect us."

Harry nodded significantly. "But you saw them on the train. Did they look protective to you? If that _professor or prefect_ hadn't made that Patronus, they would probably have Kissed one of the students already."

His friends all shuffled uncertainly, before Hermione leaned in.

"Harry. Are you going to do something about them again?"

"Look, I told you before – "

"I mean like with Lockhart. Are you going to write your reporter friend?"

"Skeeter?" Harry murmured back in surprise. "I hadn't thought of that. You're right. She loves a good scandal, perhaps that could help…"

The bushy-headed girl looked at her plate, frowning in concentration. "You'll have to do it today, I think. If you leave it too late, it won't be breaking news anymore, and the article won't make it into tomorrow's paper unless you send it out before evening."

"Right," Harry nodded. "I'll…add that to my schedule. Moving on."

Lunch finished up soon after, and the quartet wandered down to their afternoon classes in a little huddle: the Dementors hovered too close for comfort, within sight of Hagrid's hut.

Hagrid's first class went better than Harry expected, despite having forgotten to tell anyone how to open _The_ _Monster Book of Monsters_.

"Good'un yeh, 'Arry," Hagrid beamed, when all of his classmates revealed all their textbooks bound up in belts, ropes and spellotape. "Five poin's."

"Oh, sorry," Harry apologised, scratching his neck. "I…thought it was obvious. Sorry guys, you just –" He reached out to borrow Hermione's armload, the furious volume somehow growling in her arms, "– stroke down the spine." He lightly ran his finger down the leather of the spine, and the heavy book shivered lightly and relaxed. Tearing off the spellotape, it fell open with obedience, and the disbelieving classmates followed suit thereafter.

Harry's ten galleon bet with Malfoy, which he managed shortly after, seemed to have headed off the worst of the behavioural problems of the Slytherins, and soon the whole class was bowing nervously in front of a herd of Hippogriffs. Harry earned another ten points for volunteering to bow to one first, but Malfoy also volunteered, and Harry stood back as the blond-haired Slytherin successfully impressed Buckbeak. They were betting on who would earn the best grades in this class, after all. Harry felt only a tiny smidgeon of satisfaction when Malfoy hastily refused the offer to climb on Buckbeak's back and fly.

* * *

When the day ended for his friends, Harry made his excuses – a headache, exhaustion: all true – and took a moment of privacy to Turn back three hours instead. Then while he and his friends were at lunch, Harry snuck up into the Gryffindor boy's dormitory in his Invisibility Cloak over lunch to collect his trunk.

"Want to see?" he asked Crookshanks as he crept out of the dorm, and the critical but curious Crookshanks nosed up to his disembodied head before rearing, resting his impressive weight again Harry's invisible torso.

"Up you get, then," Harry encouraged, and with a little direction, the half-Kneazle surged up to drape himself across Harry's shoulders.

Harry drew up his hood, reassuring the Kneazle that there would be no apparition at all on this trip.

"Honest," he repeated, as Crookshanks' claws prickled his neckline in a repressive kind of reminder. "Have I ever lied to you before?"

Once Harry, his passenger and his luggage were sorted and invisible, the little procession shuffled as quietly as they could out of Gryffindor Tower towards the seventh-floor hallway and into Harry's Room of Requirement.

The Fat Lady made a sound of surprise as the portrait clicked open and closed without anyone being visible on either side.

Harry ignored her and made his way out of the busy hallways until he stood in the corridor, opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy.

"Kreacher," Harry called, and with excited pleasure for his loyal little house elf to arrive.

"Kreacher?" Harry tried again.

After a few more minutes wait, "Kreacher, can you come here please?"

Harry settled in, leaning comfortably against the wall of the corridor, and spent a pleasant five or ten minutes chatting to Crookshanks about life in the castle before the sound of footsteps galloping up the hallway reached him.

Eyebrows furrowed furiously, ears flapping against his scalp and with his skin flushed and red, the small elf met careened to a halt a few feet from Harry and doubled over. Of all things, he looked like a marathon runner catching his breath.

"Kreacher? Were you busy?"

"Kreacher is not moving around the castle so quickly," the old house-elf scowled Harry's way. "Kreacher is running up from the kitchens. Kreacher is doing his best."

Harry slapped his forehead with a sigh. "I'm so sorry!" he moaned. "There's all sorts of stuff I keep forgetting to deal with. But…I thought house-elves could Apparate in Hogwarts. I've seen someone do it before."

"Only for house-elves who is belonging here." Kreacher explained. "Young master Potter is foolish, but not bad for a wizard overall. Kreacher is making up for it."

"...Thanks." There was a moment of silence, broken only by the sound of Kreacher's heavy breathing.

"I'm moving Sirius," Harry hastened to explain. "You're both welcome to explore in your own time, but I thought I should show you around. This – " he waved his hand grandly, " – is one of the entrances to where I'm going to keep Sirius."

He did the walk in front of the wall, and the same little old door grew out of the stone.

"Come in, come in," Harry smiled, leading his little team directly into the darkness and eventually up to the single glowing lantern and sign post.

"From here," Harry proudly introduced, "should he should be a network of secret passages leading all around the castle. Perhaps you'll save some time next time." Harry nodded Kreacher's way.

"But over here," he stepped a few steps down a little pathway and turned a sudden corner, "is the to-scale replication of the house in Grimmauld Place, if I've remembered it rightly."

Harry shuffled them inside the door rapidly, letting both Crookshanks and Kreacher look around the house curiously.

"Back out there – " Harry leaned out the front door and waved out into the darkness, " – are any number of shortcuts that should see you all around Hogwarts as long as someone remains in the Room to keep its form. This is the Room of Requirement, sometimes called the Come and Go Room, and apparently, its only limits are those of imagination."

Crookshanks launched himself off Harry's shoulders to nose around the deceptively familiar entranceway.

Harry grinned.

Looking at his grumpy face, Crookshanks appeared to be supremely unimpressed, but Kreacher conceded that Harry might have done a good thing.

"The Room will stay like this as long as someone remains inside it," Harry continued. "So I thought it would be perfect to hide Sirius. If – I mean, when – he does decide to leave the compartment, the house should look right and should give us more time to work round him. The windows should show London scenes, so you're both welcome to hang out here, or come and go as you wish. You can get here by the shortcuts." Harry nodded out the door. "They go everywhere in the castle, although I could only find one into Hogsmeade itself. The entrances need passwords to stop all kinds of students from wandering past."

Kreacher stared.

"I made it, 'I solemnly swear that I am up to no good'."

Crookshanks meowed.

Harry added, "Aside from you. I'm pretty sure that you can just do your thing, and come in. Kneazles are supposed to be good at wards and things, aren't they? I had you two in mind when I imagined the Room, at any rate. So there shouldn't be a problem."

"Well done, young master," Kreacher croaked. "Perhaps your mad plan is working out after all. Kreacher is learning the passages, and bringing the food, and making sure that naughty Master Sirius is eating and sleeping enough. Like you is doing next."

Harry allowed himself to be bullied into eating more food, and the three of them went to feed Sirius, who was once again waking at midday.

While the Fidelius remained frustrating, and the new moon was a way off, Sirius roared with laughter when Harry brought up wanting a map.

* * *

The afternoon passed productively, Harry having achieved more in this first, single day than he had originally thought possible.

What little homework he had was soon finished, Sirius rehomed, the Map well-begun, and Harry even had time to refresh his memory in the Pensieve of what other obstacles he might face over the month before he finally excused himself just after four.

"I need to go and post a letter," Harry made his excuses and stumbled as he rose to exit the trunk.

"I might sleep again," Sirius grinned, as he waved Harry out. "Maybe you should too. You have dark circles, did you know? But come back tomorrow."

"Of course," Harry sniffed. "What were you expecting? The Hogwarts Express?"

"Well, school will go back before you know it," Sirius offered, and Harry saluted his godfather as he climbed up the stairs of the luggage. "We can think about tracking down the traitor when school's gone back," Sirius called up from below.

Harry said something vague and encouraging and he left, hoping his godfather couldn't scent lies.

Up in the Owlery, he penned off his letter to Skeeter. She still didn't know who he was, just an anonymous student at Hogwarts with his fingers in every politically scandalous pie. He hoped he had the tone just right, to catch her attention and that of her poison pen, but he really lacked the focus for a seventh draft.

He'd been awake for many, many hours.

"Bed," Harry mumbled as he came down from the Owlery. "Sorry. Excuse me," he apologised to a doorframe as he walked headfirst into it. He could have _sworn_ it had just jumped in front of him. "Mind your face."

He had the vaguest impression that he was making no sense as he stumbled into his dormitory.

Ron and Neville were playing something loud and raucous with Seamus and Dean, but Hermione was also out of sight as Harry stumbled up the staircase.

Harry growled, "Gerroff've me," as he wrestled through his bed-hangings.

"The thingie-thing wasn' – " Harry managed, as he slipped under the sheets.

He never finished the thought. Sleep claimed him like a thief in the night, and he sank into the mattress like a rag doll, at the end of a very, very long day.


	20. Snatching the Sands of Time

The next morning came about with more good luck that Harry was sure he deserved. Due to the extensive and overwhelming exhaustion of his first day time-turning, Harry slept well through his usual alarm.

Fortunately for him, a fight between Seamus and Ron woke him up on time. It wasn't the noise, of course, since his curtains were spelled silenced as they always had been since the first of his nightmares. But someone had staggered into his bed curtains, and fallen hard enough against them to whomp Harry physically in the side.

It was the only way Harry managed to wake up in time for breakfast, even if he ate it in a daze. Dry toast, porridge, bacon – he couldn't say what he ate. Then his regular delivery of the Daily Prophet appeared during the meal, and Harry really did fight his way into consciousness, blinking sleep from his eyes and bringing them into focus through sheer dint of stubbornness.

Skeeter had published his article on the front page, and naturally she had taken the time to polish the scandal up.

 _School or Slaughterhouse: Are Our Children Safe?_ bellowed the headline in huge, bold font. _Dementors from_ _Azkaban run wild on the Hogwarts Express!_ The sub-heading claimed. Harry tugged the paper in front of him and saw Hermione soon peering over his shoulder. Neville looked over his other side. Harry scanned through the smaller print, curious as to how the story had come out.

 _Innocent children fresh from their homes were irredeemably traumatised during their annual train ride to school on  
Wednesday,_ Skeeter wrote, _where they go to experience the wonders and sensations of Europe's finest school._

_But this year, instead of fond first impressions and the best of good memories, students were cowering, unprepared  
and unarmed, from the danger of the Ministry's most vicious combatants, and in fear for their very souls._

"She's got a real sense for drama, doesn't she?" Hermione mentioned.

"It's not a bad start," Harry agreed.

Ron said, "Pass the marmalade, please."

Harry continued reading.

_Early on Wednesday afternoon a horde of Dementors, usually guards of the deepest parts  
of Azkaban, forced the Hogwarts Express to a stop and forcefully boarded, driven by their  
soul-sucking hunger to assault the students where they lay trembling and unprotected.  
Uncontrolled, the beasts rampaged down the carriages, where one lone teacher and a motley  
array of Prefects stood unprepared between the monsters and their prey._

_Archibald Bertram, 54, of Devon, describes the Dementors as "ghastly monsters. Indescribably  
awful," and claims that after his brief stint near Azkaban as a delivery man in 1972, they made  
him "wish he had never been born, that nothing in the world was worth living for and I'd be better  
off dead." Ministry officials, who agree that the Dementor presence is "something I'd only wish on  
the worst of wizards, the murderers and madmen," now state that the monsters will be located  
on the grounds of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry continuously, up until the dreaded  
criminal Sirius Black is recaptured (for more details on the search, read page three)._

" _Well, we can't risk the bastard getting near our kiddies," an unnamed Auror yesterday  
proclaimed. But who guards the guardians? An anonymous young child spoke to this reporter  
about his life-threatening experience._

" _It came for me with its cold air and its whispers," the student sobbed with tears in his eyes.  
"I saw its hand – grey, slimy and diseased when it reached up to take down its hood. Under the  
hood – I can't, I can't," the poor child shivered, distraught. "The mouth! The hole! Like looking  
into…I can't say."_

_This reporter was reluctant to compel the student to say more, but the truth must come out. 'Like  
all the happy thoughts in the world had just died," another unnamed student admitted. "Everything  
from my worst nightmares come to life," claimed a third. "I wanted to die."_

_While the Ministry stubbornly resists calls of change, a thin strand of hope appears. "There was  
a giant silver animal," a first-year Hufflepuff admits. "It came down the train to tell us to lock  
our doors, and stayed with us while we hid."_

_An anonymous prefect (16) confirms. "One was near us too. This big thing with horns, but  
radiating warmth and light and hope. And then when the Dementors came too close – or  
something – it turned and charged and chased the Dementors right out of the train. We last  
saw them flapping away in the distance when the train started up again. It was glorious."_

_The mysterious Patronus, the only known defence against Dementors to date, has not yet  
been traced back to any known witch or wizard on the train. Fiendishly complex to cast, these  
several saviours surely saved students' souls._

_No students or teachers have taken responsibility for the dramatic rescue, although it is  
known no Aurors or Ministry personal were at the scene._

" _Hope can be found even in the Darkest of Times," Headmaster Albus Dumbledore stated  
when asked. "But we must take responsibility for what we do to ourselves." Parents and  
teachers are understandably furious and have challenged the Ministry to remove the  
Dementors from the school, but thus far Minister Fudge has refused._

_Famous orphan, Harry Potter (13), known to be on the train, will have begun the year hoping to overcome  
the betrayal and shock of Gilderoy Lockhart's criminal tendencies, along with his classmates.  
Known to have struggled with the revelation of his trusted teacher's dark past, will this year  
allow him to regain his balance? Or will his darkest of memories resurface, forcing him to  
wallow in betrayal?_

_Will the next attack be a close shave or a tragedy? Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, says,  
"Well, we wouldn't want that." But what steps will the Ministry take? We await news with  
baited breath._

Harry swallowed his mouthful with a satisfied gulp – toast with jam, it turned out – and looked up to meet his friends' enquiring eyes.

"Not a bad article," he murmured, eyebrow quirked. "I did like the tone, and I don't know how she got all those interviews with all those other students. But maybe it will get something happening at the Ministry."

"Hrm," hummed Hermione, and Neville tapped his finger on a sentence he had fixated on.

"'I can't, I can't,'" Neville quoted with a quirked brow. "'The mouth!…I can't say!' This unnamed, shivering child wouldn't happen to be someone we know, would it, Harry?"

Harry wriggled in his seat. "I'm sure I don't know what you're implying. The poor kid seems traumatized, Nev. You shouldn't laugh at his pain."

"And the poor little Hufflepuff?"

"Brave, weren't they?" Harry admired, taking a sip from his pumpkin juice. "All away from home for the first time and traumatised like they were, and he – or she, it could be a girl – was still paying enough attention to describe the Patronus."

"Uh huh," the boy nodded. "Precisely what part of this article did you contribute to in your letter? I find I can't quite recall?"

"Just a…a strongly worded opinion. Nothing dramatic at all, really." Harry flapped his hands. "More toast, Ron?"

"I see," said Neville, sitting back, and Ron accepted the toast platter. The red-head then looked at Harry, mouth still full, and mumbled. "They've mentioned your name, for sure, Harry. But you sound like a bit of a plonker, if you ask me. If that's the reputation you were going to come out with, why'd you bother writing in?"

Harry laughed, and changed the subject.

He distracted the others with questions about their timetable, before their first period of double Potions wore down their enthusiastic teasing. Then after class Hermione found a moment to corner him in the corridor as they walked to lunch.

"What were the actual quotes you gave?" she demanded curiously, auburn hair frizzing. "Did a Hufflepuff actually say that? Why didn't you admit that was your spell? Have you been lying, Harry?"

"Of course not!" Harry shot back, before he realised that in fact, he had been. Quite a lot, if he added it all up. "I wrote down how I felt, and the kinds of things that other students had been saying. Skeeter just dramatised it all. She does that."

Hermione quirked her head at him, humouring him. "So you actually said that?"

Harry coughed. "My quotes? About how I was feeling? I…yes."

"I didn't think you saw its mouth."

"Oh yes," Harry spoke honestly. "That is definitely not a memory I will forget. It's horrible. Absolutely horrible." He remembered distantly that day by the lake, with Hermione's Time-Turner and the horde. "I…uh…got a glimpse under the hood," he hastily added. "When it looked at me."

She quirked a brow sceptically. "If you say so. I was actually going to ask Harry, why we went to classes separately yesterday. Wouldn't it make so much more sense for you to Turn back with me? I've worked out the most time-efficient route."

Harry squirmed. "Wow, Hermione. That's great. Just…great. I was actually thinking that I'd try to do my extra homework while I was Turned back. My evenings would look more normal then, you see. I think we should probably keep doing our own thing, for now."

She harrumphed. "Harry Potter. Professor McGonagall told us quite firmly that we should only be Turning back for classes."

Harry shrugged. "And? I will be using it for classes, and homework for classes in the spare moments. I'm not as efficient as you, you realise. These things take me longer."

"What will you say if Professor McGonagall asks? You're still breaking the rules. I'd be happy to help when you need me, you know."

"Thanks," he declined. "Just a little 'me' time here and there should keep me moderately up to speed. She does want me to keep up with Quidditch too, you realise? The electives aren't actually wanded classes, you know. They're far more your speciality than mine."

Hermione softened, her eyebrows lowering and friendly dimples lurked at the edges of her smile. "That's true. I don't want to deprive you of time you need for studying. You often help Neville and Ron out, too. I suppose I won't tell Professor McGonagall then, if you're sure."

Harry thought the conversation was finished then, and turned to leave. But he was otherwise unsurprised when Hermione's quick, light footsteps pattered after him and she arranged herself so she kept up with his strides.

"Speaking of which," Hermione huffed, as she matched Harry's rapid pace. "I saw you cast 'Accio' again in the common room yesterday. That's an O.W.L-level spell, Harry! But you've been using it since first-year, haven't you? Can you tell me how you learned it? Is there a trick to it? Does it need more power, or precision?" She huffed a little, her hair fluffing in the breeze of her own speed. "Was it really the spell you used back on the train in first-year? Can you have a look at mine later, and tell me what I'm doing wrong?"

"Sure, sure," Harry agreed, and they fell into contemplative silence.

Their relationship had certainly changed since his first timeline. He still relied on her, of course, but apparently, she now relied on him too. The roles in their adoptive sibling relationship had somehow changed, and he was still working out how.

They went off then, for lunchtime, after which came Remus' lesson with the Boggart. To Harry's particular lack of surprise, he was once again passed over for a chance at the Boggart, although in hindsight he did wonder if his fear was the same. Could Dementors still be your greatest fear when could can fight off a pack?

* * *

Harry Turned back for Runes, meeting Hermione inside the classroom.

"Harry," his friend waved him over with a smile. "I saved you a seat. I hope you don't mind sitting in the front all the time – I didn't even ask for the other classes. Is this okay with you?"

"Sure," Harry shrugged, not fussed either way. "But it doesn't seem like much of a choice this time around. How many desks do you count?"

Hermione glanced around the room once. She nodded. "Twelve. It will be a small class."

"I think there's another third-year class?" Harry offered. "For people who double-booked themselves this period. So… we're maybe half the students in our year?"

Hermione agreed with him mildly, and set about sharpening her quill nib, the better to take notes with.

The other desks soon filled up with the rest of the students; Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws filled all of the seats. Harry figured that there might be more Slytherins and a handful of Gryffindors in the other class, if he was being generous.

He continued to check out the room while the five minutes before class time passed. Unlike Arithmancy with its fresh, empty spaces, or Remus' room with its containers and cages, the Ancient Runes room had no knickknacks or collectables. Instead, every inch of the wall was crammed with parchment.

Maps, alphabets, posters of a codex or two at least, a number of diagrams that were covered in notes. It seemed like a room decorated by someone with a very busy mind.

At least the lighting was good.

"Welcome class," a voice spoke, and they all looked up front. Another female teacher was standing at the front of the room looking a little bit rumpled and rushed. There were ink splatters down the front of her tawny brown robe.

"We don't have much time, so I'll get straight to the point. This class introduces you to a number of ancient languages and the symbols they communicated with. This first year will start slowly, covering Elder Futhark in-depth; Younger Futhark and Anglo-Saxon Futhorc will be covered in a purely comparative manner, as well as the associated rune poems explaining each symbol and a brief history of the relevant cultures. These mnemonic poems will help you understand the meanings, symbolisms and complexities for each of the characters we will cover this year. As further background knowledge, we will also comprehensively explore the relevant myths and legends of these cultures, so that you might begin to comprehend the subtleties, fluidity and depth of meaning of each rune individually.

"In addition to your required textbooks, which I hope you have already familiarised yourself with, I take this opportunity to recommend the thesaurus, _Linguarum veterum septentrionalium_ , seventeenth edition, for your further edification."

Harry picked up his quill and ink with a jolt, having somehow missed the right moment to start taking notes. He scribbled down what he hoped was the correct spelling for that book the teacher recommended. It would be interesting to flip through, he was sure.

"Next year," the teacher continued, barely pausing for breath. "We introduce the concepts of proto-Germanic and Latin grammar, and explore making meanings in our key medium, Elder Futhark. You will begin translating short texts to improve your understandings of meaning."

She paused. "Is there anyone in the class who speaks another of the Germanic languages? Scots, German, Dutch, Yiddish...?"

Harry looked around in astonishment as more than half the class raised their hands with a rustle of fabric. How many people precisely spoke two languages at Hogwarts? Or...did they speak _more_ than two?

He saw out of the corner of his eye, Hermione scowl terribly and make another heavily indented note on her parchment.

"Hands down, please. You will find that a knowledge of a variety of Germanic languages will support you in your study." The teacher continued apace; Harry scrambled to keep his note-taking efficient. "The year after we begin to evaluate the efficiency of each rune set for different purposes. All through this time we continue to deepen your knowledge of meaning and interpretation, working with a number of manuscripts, meagre to renowned, and the texts you work with continue to grow in complexity. Your O.W.L.s will occur near this time, so all of this base knowledge must be memorised by then."

Harry couldn't help biting his tongue, just a little, as he scribbled away madly. It sounded like they weren't looking at magic at all, just foreign languages. Old foreign languages, at that.

She continued. "After exams, as a reward for good work, we will explore briefly the languages of Asia and Africa – _adinkra_ , for those of you who like to research ahead – and discover how they function differently to European systems. And when you return from your study break, we continue working with our existing rune set, but extend this to taking modern concepts and translate them back into other languages.

"In your sixth year – and _only_ then – we begin exploring how magic relates to rune sets with ancient charms – not the spellwork, the amulets. This involves the inclusion of runes that were created specifically for magical communities, and all the history that that encompasses. You will begin to learn the art of crafting runes and will become familiar with different methods and mediums in which to carve them. We will see examples of runework in practice, and explore how they function in divination, in warding and in enchanting, to name but a few. In preparation for your N.E.W.T exams, and only in this year, you will also choose another system to study independently. Many choose to research a form of Egyptian scripts – of which hieroglyphs are only one option, although Anglo-Saxon Runes and Younger Furthark alphabets are both more common and more commonly successful."

Harry couldn't help himself, he accidentally jammed his quill nib too far into the parchment, and swore as the tip bent, ink smudging all over. He shook out his wrist as the rushing voice kept washing over him.

Tripping over her tongue in her haste to explain, the teacher continued to babble incessantly. "In addition to self-directed learning in the alphabet of your choice, the last year of your schooling at Hogwarts will see you finally begin designing rune phrases with the intention of activating them for magic. You will be given phrases in the languages you should have learned and will not only translate them, but explain the logic behind them, and troubleshoot and improve upon them if required. By this stage you should be a fluent translator of the scripts you have chosen, and are beginning to apply them to the types of magic you feel them best suited for.

"It's a heavy workload, but incredibly rewarding. And the library collection is second to none – our results in Ancient Runes contribute significantly to the International reputation of our school. Did I mention my name?"

"Professor Babbling?" Su Li, a Ravenclaw girl Harry had never known well, waited for the professor's attention, and then asked, "So, just to confirm, but we will learn two languages as a part of this elective?"

Professor Babbling prevaricated. "You will learn the written systems to two languages fluently, and your working knowledge of the languages they express will be somewhere between basic and fluent."

Hermione looked up from her notebook, in which she had been scribbling wildly, and forgot to raise her hand. "Which works out to be a little _more_ than two languages then?"

The teacher sighed. "The spoken languages will not be our focus for the course, but there will be a couple of languages that you will become very familiar with, and a further one or two that you will learn to understand in terms of vocabulary, grammar and syntax, certainly."

A Hufflepuff boy Harry barely recognised – perhaps he had been in Flitwick's choir at one stage? – tentatively put his hand up. "Professor, that sounds like an awful lot of hard work."

"Indeed," she smiled thinly. "We are always the single smallest elective classes running, and usually lose a few at the end of each year."

Harry looked around at the eleven other faces in the room. If the whole cohort was twice this – unlikely, given the Gryffindors' academic tolerances – and the subject lost three people at the end of each year…that was a very small number who would sit for their N.E.W.T.s. The professor seemed to read the tone of the room, because she gave a satisfied nod. "Our O.W.L results are unremarkable, but those who stick with it until the N.E.W.T exams do very, very well."

Harry raised his eyebrows. He wasn't going to quit anyway, he had been desperate for some new and interesting classes, but if he lived long enough for N.E.W.T.s, those facts were good to know.

* * *

The time sped by in a confusing blur that Harry never quite grabbed hold of. He managed his homework with militant precision: colour-coded note sets, for the knowledge he gained, contrasted with the slightly substandard homework he handed in for the more familiar classes. Harry didn't mind: he was literally rewriting the homework he'd created in the first time-line, but with edits. Hopefully with better structure and handwriting. Hermione would skin him alive if she ever found out, but it saved him tons of time.

He dropped by to visit Sirius for a few hours every day, which was great for the man's health, and even better for Harry's future plans.

He sat in Defense and hoped that Remus would make some kind of move: meet Harry's eyes, reveal his relationship to his father, anything. However, nothing seemed to happen, not even when Harry scrutinised Remus' expressions during lessons.

Welp, Harry shrugged, it wasn't like he tended to have time to hang about after classes either. Not even after that early lesson where he was not allowed to face his Boggart.

* * *

Crookshanks started harassing Wormtail, to Harry's hidden delight and Ron's dismay. Harry belatedly introduced Crookshanks to his dormmates, and was carefully relaxed about reprimanding his behaviour, to Ron's frustrated fury. The boy's dormitory became somewhat fraught with tension.

Wormtail lost weight.

* * *

Quidditch practice started.

Poor Percy Weasley, Harry was embarrassed to note, followed him to every quidditch practice. It took Harry a fortnight to weasel out of him that McGonagall had asked Percy to keep a close eye on Harry, 'circumstances being what they are', and he was simultaneously pleased that he and Percy were already friends - with a working relationship between them, and guilty that the new Head Boy was compelled to waste to much time on him.

* * *

Harry found himself shedding stationery like some kind of old, sick cat shedding fur. It seemed that every second day, he'd turn around to pick up a new textbook or flip to another appendix before turning back to his homework to find...nothing. Quills were the worst, Harry decided. They seemed so small and cheap in general; Harry decided he must be leaving them everywhere.

Parchment went missing too, though less often.

Harry credited that to leaving all his completed work in the mokeskin pouch that hung around his neck.

He figured the exhaustion was beginning to hit, and tried to keep an eye out for Hermione when he had a spare moment.

* * *

In between classes new and old, Harry found time to send another couple of letters to Rita Skeeter, this time giving her permission to use his name and quotes in her sensationalist articles. Other parents were encouraged to contribute; the Potter Spotter corner of the paper was unrelentingly covering the _Trouble with Dementors_ , as it became known for a number of weeks.

Letters to his lawyer had the Wizengamot and Ministry similarly harassed.

* * *

He and Luna visited the Charms Club, which was fascinating for Harry but he quickly realised he no longer really needed the club. His spellwork was beyond that now; anything new he wanted to learn could be gleaned from books. Luna didn't seem interested in the charms they taught either.

Harry wondered if growing up in a magical home means that the more useful magic was, well, taught at home.

Harry spared a thoughtful look in Luna's direction when they walked out of the club with polite nods to Flitwick.

Perhaps everything necessary to a wizarding life-style was taught in the home? And perhaps kids who grew up with magic just didn't want to bother with unnecessary spellwork?

Which made a shocking amount of sense, now that Harry thought about it. He wondered why the thought had never occurred to him before.

They continued searching for a place for Luna to belong.

* * *

He and Draco exchanged more furtive letters, neither of them quite willing to reveal the most surprising friendship of the decade to the rumour mill of Hogwarts Castle. After a couple of owls went missing, he and Draco stopped signing their names of any correspondence.

It felt positively Slytherin, Harry thought, though Draco scolded him for saying so.

* * *

Classes kept up and Harry kept feeling like things were falling out of his brain.

Somehow, bafflingly, Harry lost his dragonskin boots.

He'd really liked them, too! They fit well, were charmed to grow with him for a little bit and could be worn both outside and inside the castle. He searched under all the beds in the dorm and even asked Crookshanks to keep an eye out for them between - y'know - his more important work. Unfortunately, nothing turned up.

Harry got very good at conjuring replacements every morning while he waited for them to find their way home.

* * *

Then the first new moon of the school year arrived, and Harry carefully retrieved, from a special crystal phial, the desiccated mandrake leaf that he'd prepared.

It was a little awkward getting the thing into his mouth: leaf, his fingers to hold it in the right place, his wand tip - carefully aimed.

Harry was embarrassed to find himself fumbling awkwardly while he lay back on his bed, neck very strangely twisted, and a long string of drool hanging out of the left side of his mouth.

"Pleh!" Harry spat, and the slightly soggy leaf was forced from his mouth and fell, damp and uncomfortably warm, onto his pillow. "Pleh," he said again. It tasted _disgusting_.

Rolling over, Harry coughed and hacked for a few moments before he managed to roll over onto his front and stare at the problematic leaf in question.

He nibbled his lip thoughtfully.

"How are you supposed to work, then?" Harry murmured to the darkly coloured, slightly glistening thing.

His mouth simply couldn't _fit_ the leaf and his fingers and his wand all at once. And he really, _really_ wanted to make sure that his wand tip was pointed straight at the leaf on the roof on his mouth and not - say - towards his tongue instead.

It took a few tries, a conjured mirror, and a few attempts at standing on his head, but eventually Harry managed to get the leaf where he wanted it and cast the right spell.

The next morning, after a positively _exhausting_ night of swirls and dizzying colours and muscle cramps, Harry changed his mind immediately. He Vanished the disruptive object straight from his mouth before he even got out of bed.

It was fortunate, Harry thought, that good sense prevailed. He was already frenetic with homework and letters, plans and time-management and projects. Study, and map-making. The few promises with his friends that he totally meant to squeeze in somehow.

He'd postpone the process a few weeks, just to get his feet under him and finally settle down.

* * *

Quidditch meetings on strategy began.

Homework grew heavier.

* * *

Hermione's birthday passed by with more hassle than Harry had been expecting. Ron and Neville had quite kindly decided to make an event of it, but their surprise cake and snacks had interrupted Hermione's study schedule, and there was a bit of a fuss in the common room before everything sorted itself out.

Harry's own gift to Hermione was more gracefully accepted. He was quite proud of the planner he gave her, which was not only an improvement on the smaller one she had been using, but was charmed to be read only by her. It would lessen the chances of anyone finding out about her lack of _time_ this year, he explained.

Hermione was appropriately impressed.

* * *

Somehow, the boys' dormitory flooded.

Harry didn't quite understand how. There were no leaks in the roof, no recent heavy rain. There couldn't even be any broken pipes or plumbing, because up in the towers the restrooms were all enchanted anyway.

Dean Thomas splashed through the wreckage looking positively heartbroken.

"But Lee Chapman," he mourned, and picked up his very sodden, muggle trunk.

The hinge fell off the waterlogged leather. His trunk fell open and a pile of clothes tipped straight onto the stone floor and into the inch-deep water that lay across the room.

"I mean, Matt Holland too, but Lee Chapman."

He bent down to pick up a single sodden sock, and looked back at the dripping football posters that were damply sagging, colours running, above his dormitory bed.

"Can you even fix these with a _reparo_ charm?" he asked the room mournfully, but nobody replied.

Ron and Seamus were alright, in general. Their stuff was mostly magicked up by their families anyway. Neville just fussed about a couple of his bedside plants being overwatered.

Harry, unreasonably glad that he had bought himself a fabulously expensive trunk in which he kept everything, only had to watch out for a sulking Crookshanks and wondered idly what had gone wrong.

* * *

A few weeks later, Harry found he had to use more Sleakeazy than usual, as his hair gained an odd kind of determination to poof out all over the place. Ron - well-recovered from the temporary Gryffindor flood - made all kinds of jokes, usually about Harry looking like Hermione. It made Harry feel a bit better that at least his hair hadn't bushed out in quite the same was Hermione's had.

He was trying to keep up with his sleep and resting and whatnot.

But the Sleakeazy stuff was probably the main reason he looked a little more put together.

"Harry," Percy mentioned to him over breakfast early on in October. "Have you been scheduling in enough rest for yourself?"

He shrugged. "I think so? I mean, I take a lot more naps than it looks like I do, if you know what I mean."

Percy nodded sagely. "That's reassuring to hear. Obviously, there are myriad reasons for you to be stressed this year, but," he fixed his gaze on Harry intently, never mind the spoon balancing in his right hand, "you've been holding up admirably, if you don't mind me saying so."

Harry shared a small grin with the older boy. "Thanks, I think? I mean, I figured I'm in it for the marathon, not the sprint."

"I beg your pardon?"

Harry's brow crinkled. "Was that a muggle expression? Sorry. I, uh, want to stick it out for the long-term."

Percy's confusion cleared. "Ohh, I see. A 'marathon', you say. Not a 'splint'. I'll try to remember that."

"Sprint."

"Sprint?" Percy nodded thoughtfully. "Many thanks. Dad will love to know that one."

Harry shot a quick glance down the other side of the table to where Hermione was reading a textbook over her porridge. "Have you been keeping an eye on Hermione, too? Is she doing okay, in your – erm – experienced opinion?"

"Granger?" Percy followed Harry's gaze. "She seems to be coping adequately, from what I've seen. You might want to suggest that she...'sprint' a little less to make it to year's-end more comfortably, since she's a friend of yours. Fascinating, isn't it, that sometimes the worst things we choose to do to ourselves."

Harry almost choked on his next mouthful. " _Hck-ghck!"_ he managed, and then thumped himself on the chest a few times. _Dementors, TimeTurning, Skeeter, lawyers, Sirius, the Fidelius, map-making and animagusing..._

"That's...that's way more true that you know!"

Percy looked at him, mildly concerned.

* * *

The second full moon arrived with surprising swiftness, conveniently beginning a weekend. Harry had ordered away for another desiccated mandrake leaf to stick to the inside of this mouth. He figured fresh ingredients would heighten his chances of success. Inside his magical trunk, Sirius – to Harry's mild amazement and relief – was utterly unaware of time passing at all.

But he figured Sirius would be keen to help him through the process – or rather, Harry didn't want to try his month of dreams without advice. Harry worried a little about how to keep Sirius unaware of time passing; if his godfather was also helping him interpret his dreams, surely he'd keep track of the moon cycle? Could Harry skip communication some days? Maybe 'encourage' Sirius to sleep a little more deeply for a week or so?

Thirty minutes after he had charmed the leaf to the roof of his mouth, Kreacher arrived at the castle, saying that the Ministry watchers had left Grimmauld Place, and was Harry able to do the Fidelius Charm yet, because it was time to move Sirius back home?

Harry promptly spat out his mouthful and postponed the leaf-taking a second time, because Sirius was his priority.

That next week, all of Harry's spare time was taken practising the Fidelius. Inside his trunk compartment, Harry learnt to hide the quill in Sirius' soul. He'd moved on to hiding a rug, and found that the energy requirements certainly did increase exponentially with size.

Kreacher stopped him panicking, kept him goal-oriented. Crookshanks' deigned to sleep on Harry's bed, curled up in the crook of his knees. Harry appreciated the emotional grounding.

Despite his exhaustion, despite lack of sleep, and a boat-load of other tasks to worry about, Harry prioritised Kreacher's Grimmauld request. He'd been practising, his priorities all a mess, but eventually managed to successfully cast the charm on his expanded luggage the one time, each of twelve sigils anchored firmly around the edges of his trunk.

Harry rejoiced when he finally managed to read the resonance right so the developing spell started to hold itself together instead of fighting him. This minor success ensured Sirius' safety at Hogwarts, as well. No curious dorm-mates or prefects could possibly find Sirius now. The progress was promising.

* * *

Between classes, and sometimes during them if he was practising spell-work, the weird double vision thing was coming back with his exhaustion. As Harry rushed through busy corridors, head bowed and feet charging forward through the crush, Harry sometimes found it difficult to ignore the cold, clutching cramp that ached in his chest.

"Probably the Dementor effect," Hermione suggested, having seen his sinewy hand grasp the front of his robes, knuckles pale. "Try chocolate."

Neville told him that he'd been right about the castle feeling the dementor chill, and perhaps Harry should spend more time in the common room.

Luna suggested he try a cork necklace.

"Mate," Ron offered practically, "Are you wearing enough layers? I'm sure my Mum can get you a sweater..."

Harry smiled painfully, hoped he had hidden the effort that took him, and desperately prayed he was ready to charm a whole house.

* * *

The lawyer kept in contact. Good news, bad news; the hilarious updates of where around Britain Sirius had been seen in last. At least there was always that for Harry to laugh about. In his sleep-deprived and mildly hysterical state, Harry gained more amusement than he should have from spreading the most unlikely rumours around the castle.

By the end of October, the preparation for the Marauders Map, mark two, was almost complete. Harry took Luna back to the Art Club, where she learnt to blend oil on canvas, and he learnt to draw straight lines and practised illustrating things to scale.

The only other thing that slowed its creation down was the fact that Harry couldn't actually start crafting the final product. If he did, Sirius would demand to see its progress and Harry simply couldn't have that – lest it reveal they were actually in Hogwarts. He fobbed Sirius off by pointing out that he had to actually pace around the walls of each room and corridor to connect it properly onto Harry's draft, and since they 'weren't at Hogwarts yet', it was impossible to do. Something to do with the magic of the castle, Sirius had explained once, so he knew perfectly well that Harry had to 'wait' until September first, and was willing to let the project slide.

Personally, Harry wished he could devote more energy to its creation; since Hogwarts' rooms sometimes shifted, and walls and doorways pretended, only physical experience through a wizard's body could translate the castle into a map. It was all quite fascinating, actually.

Something about 'walking the wards', he thought. Or was it, 'walking the walls'? The whole concept was worth more time. Sometime.

Then he remembered to use his spare time – _hah, spare time!_ – to practise the Fidelius and pushed his other plans to the back of his mind.

* * *

Harry felt shattered. Classes, classes, extra time, homework, more classes, homework, more time, Sirius, Quidditch, his research…Hermione had started looking like a mess after Christmas, Harry remembered breathlessly while he dashed through a secret passage that came out by the library.

He would have fallen down the stairs after Astronomy one night, if Neville hadn't caught him. Hermione would have scolded him if she, too, hadn't looked worse for wear.

Harry had almost made it eight weeks, and things were tight.

He snuck out through Hogsmeade the one night, using the hidden tunnels to avoid the Dementors, and found to his relief that his wand was still unTraceable for now.

He almost cried.

* * *

Everything else finally organised, it was only a matter of waiting for an appropriate weekend for Harry to put his plans into action. The Friday night before Halloween was when he smuggled out Sirius in his luggage, and flew back to Grimmauld Place on his Nimbus two thousand after his roommates fell asleep.

There, standing in the London drizzle, hair plastered to his forehead and nose dripping with trickling rain, Harry stood at the boundary edge of the old Grimmauld property and said a very bad word.

Kreacher shot a sceptical kind of look at him from somewhere by his left elbow, but Harry only licked his lips and avoided his gaze as a cascade of memories – not forgotten, never forgotten, but…pushed to one side – rushed through his brain.

Awkwardly, and feeling like a real pillock, Harry remembered that he had to anchor the spell to the boundaries of the property, and had forgotten to check out the garden. To his complete lack of surprise, the enclosed area was a complete and utter death trap. He didn't have time to kill the whole man-eating jungle off, and Harry wracked his head to figure out what to do.

Having scouted the whole property from his broomstick, Harry landed next to Kreacher in the rain and the shadow and gazed for a while at a scuff on his left shoe.

"So…" Harry mumbled, nibbling his lower lip.

No one replied.

Harry frowned deeply, focussing really hard on blending the scuff in with the rest of the leather. His right foot worked, and his body wobbled a little bit with the force he was scuffing the leather with.

"Uh…well…" he tried again. Then Harry rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. "Yeah…um…"

Kreacher stood next to him in very expressive silence. The old house-elf said nothing at all, as he looked at Harry from underneath his brows.

"Young master forgot," he finally spoke without inflexion, and Harry winced.

"Um?" Harry ventured. "You're not, you're not wrong," he admitted. "Do house-elves…" He trailed off hopefully.

Kreacher managed to include volumes of both scorn and patience in his next sentence. "I is not a 'garden elf', Young Master."

Harry grimaced. "Of course."

Harry bent down to pick with the luggage again, Sirius still ensconced safely within it. Then he returned to Hogsmeade with a _crack_ , needing to deal with this next barrier before he could attempt the spell.

At least with Sirius still in Hogwarts, the warren of corridors in the Room would remain.


	21. Good News

Despite the turmoil in Harry's life, time paused for no wizard, and the mornings kept coming. The owls flew into Hogwarts Great Hall over breakfast the next day as usual, and homework and deadlines ticked over just as they always had.

Harry was tentatively beginning to get over his embarrassingly bad week when he got a letter he'd been waiting for.

 _Dear Mister Potter,_ a letter from Harry's lawyer read one morning, just after he'd filled up his plate.

_I hope you are finding the year productive._

Harry almost spat out his toast. Productive was certainly one word to describe the chaos that his life had recently become. But the letter went on.

_It is my solemn duty to update you on three things. First, muggles claim to have sighted Sirius Black at large and on the run on the outskirts of Chelsea. The Ministry suspects that Black is searching for his fellow Death Eaters, as an Auror raid back in 1986 discovered an abandoned Death Eater hideout close by. My professional connections suggest that Ministry Aurors are putting a new ambush together, surrounding the old building, so if, indeed, Black intends to make connections with old acquaintances, he will soon be out of luck._

At last some amusing news. Harry managed to swallow breakfast without hurting the inside of his throat and took a deep swig of butterbeer. It was always a pleasure to see the Ministry in a flap.

_Second, the Ministry continues to be firm in their stance to continue holding Dementors at Hogwarts._

Harry scowled.

_I have been writing missives and begun a correspondence with a number of administrative staff and elected officials. Minister Fudge sends his apologies but … Unsurprisingly, Madam Umbridge reiterates…Lady Coleridge sends her regrets although… Casper Beckett… Mr Crouch… Archibald Spalding apologises…_

Harry's eyes skimmed past paragraph after paragraph of names that simply seemed to be evidence that the lawyer was attempting to fulfil his request. But no progress had been made, Lloyd-Elliot would continue to represent Harry's interests with regards to this incident.

Harry's reading was interrupted by Neville, who asked, "So what's the news, Harry? No fan letters this morning?"

Harry shrugged, kicked out gently with a foot and hit what was hopefully Neville's ankle. "Oi. Not much? Doesn't look like the Dementors are going, though."

A number of people around Harry turned, rolled their eyes, and made their obligatory complaints.

"I'll write my grandmother again," Neville offered. "I'm pretty sure she's really keen to browbeat the whole Ministry over this…um…mess."

"It's a right cock-up," Ron agreed.

"Ronald Weasley! Watch your language," Hermione said, not even looking up from her own reading of the morning paper. "I'm honestly surprised that they've let things go on after the Hogwarts Express issue," she continued, finally raising her brown eyes and putting the paper down on the table with a rustle and a shake.

"There is no limit to the disappointment I expect to feel with regards to the Ministry," Harry admitted, before turning to the older boy on his right. "Percy, what do you think?"

Similarly pouring over the Daily Prophet, Percy slowly put down his own reading and met Harry's eyes.

"Surprisingly," the older boy said thoughtfully, "I find myself uncertain as to what the Ministry intends. If – as indeed might be the case – they are doubling down on an unpopular policy because it will get the job done, then they have failed to take all potential outcomes into account."

Ron snorted. "Too right."

Percy pompously continued over Ron's voice and the general chatter of the Great Hall behind him. "Alternatively, they might be attempting to come down hard in an attempt to appeal to the voters – which is also a strategic mistake."

Harry over his letter folded to read the second page and then sighed, shoulders heavy. "It's a monumental mistake, is what it is. It's only luck that no one died last time."

Hermione furrowed her eyebrows. "Last time?"

 _Last timeline? Damn the exhaustion._ "Ah." Scanning the table quickly, Harry spotted an unclaimed strip of bacon and quickly stuffed it into his mouth. "Hmm? Mmm-mm. Mmhm." He waved for Percy to continue.

"To be honest," the red-headed Head Boy continued. "I have been corresponding with my father about this matter. He has explained to me that there are some behind-the-scenes reshuffling of alliances and strategic withdrawals happening concurrently. A couple of people seem to be making a power-play, apparently."

Hermione gasped. "What? That's horrible! There are liv—souls at stake, for goodness sake!"

At the same time, Harry murmured. "Ah. That sounds about right."

Hermione, bless her – the academic, rule-following, innocent Hermione – looked at Harry quizzically and said, very slowly. "You know, Harry. I…I don't want to sound confrontational when I say this, but…I'm beginning to get the impression you don't think much of…"

_The Ministry?_ _Authority figures? Adults? All of the above?_

"Minister Fudge's administration," Hermione finally settled on. "I don't know enough about wizarding politics myself, but…aren't you being a bit hard on him?"

Harry heroically restrained himself from laughing and sent a silent, desperate plea for help Percy's way. Neville's way. Anybody, please. "Er…"

"Well, Hermione," Percy responded heroically first, "while I don't deny that it _is_ true that politics is a game played whereby everybody compromises and therefore no one wins, in _this particular case_ I find myself agreeing with Harry."

Harry closed his mouth to listen, intrigued. Percy certainly had changed a lot from last timeline, but he couldn't quite put his finger on why.

"What do you mean?"

Percy thoughtfully tapped his chin before speaking very slowly. "I too, once believed that the Ministry had the interests of the people at heart. Rules, policies, guidelines and consequences working together to make a better future for everybody."

Hermione sat straight up. "Wait, are you suggesting—"

Percy continued. "The Ministry was once my goal. I longed to be part of building the bigger picture, guiding British wizards into a positive future, but I have spoken extensively to my father, recently, and found," he shot a complex glance towards Harry, "that I need to, what was the phrase? Ah, 'shed my naivety.'"

Neville spoke up hesitantly. "My Gran told me that you can get really rich in politics if you play it right."

Percy nodded. "That about sums it up. I find I must, uh, reconsider my future plans, as it were."

Huh, Harry thought. Now this was a conversation he had never expected to have.

"Now, look here," Hermione leaned forward, elbows on table and the angle of her spine simply _demanding_ attention from her audience. "Look, I, acknowledge that voters actually have less influence on the direction of their government that is generally admitted – often due to distracting political rhetoric, or…"

Harry easily zoned out of the suddenly intense academic debate. Hermione and Percy could go on for hours, if anyone let them, and Harry didn't need his opinion changed. Don't trust the government was his safest bet, and nothing anyone is Harry's life – either life – seemed to suggest anything different.

Then a line in his letter drew Harry's attention back to the present. Seeker's hands shot out, grabbed the letter, raised the dark, spiky font to his face.

 _Thirdly, I have discovered Sirius Black's trial records_ , Erasmus Lloyd-Elliot wrote. _We should meet to discuss them._

Harry's very first Hogsmeade visit couldn't come soon enough.

* * *

When the morning of the Hogsmeade visit finally rolled around, Harry joined his friends for breakfast bright and early. Indeed, a bit too bright and early for his sleep-heavy eyes and the ringing in his ears, but there was only one first Hogsmeade trip, after all, and everyone else in third-year was terribly excited. Having eaten breakfast in record time, the four Gryffindors joined the crowds of students milling in the Entrance Hall before the doors opened at 9.30. Harry'd been there before, of course, but he was looking forward to finally seeing the first time Hermione saw Scrivenshaft's, and Ron going into Honeydukes, and Nev finally discovering the gardening shop. He'd missed all those experiences before, and somehow the gap – him missing those experiences – had carried with him somehow, setting him apart from his friends.

While waiting for the doors to open, Harry looked around him casually, Ron and Neville chatting animatedly at his side.

The crowd was mostly third-years, now he noticed. It had seemed like most of the school last time, Harry pondered as he took in the excited crowds. But he'd been feeling so sorry for himself, and everyone had looked so enthusiastic.

Barely any of the senior students were waiting, Harry saw. He assumed that they knew better than to join the crush of thirteen-year-olds. The shops would wait an extra half an hour for them.

While he scoped out the crowd, Harry's keen eyes spotted Draco grinning at him from a corner. The Slytherin also had big plans for the day, but they'd reluctantly decided they couldn't meet up. Too many students would notice a friendship between the two of them. Harry grinned in Draco's direction, and promised himself that he _would_ find the best present for his newest friend – under twelve sickles, to keep it affordable – and thus they could be together in spirit at least some of the day. A little bit of healthy competition kept the friendship fresh, either way.

His focus returned to his mates. Ron and Neville were talking about Honeydukes again. Despite Ron's best efforts, Neville remained uninterested in the more intimidating products from Zonko's, but they could both enjoy the Chocolate Frog collection with ease.

Neville and Ron's voices chattered on, and Hermione was busy checking her pockets fussily, leaving Harry to stand in his thoughts, when a soft, dreamy voice addressed him from behind his left shoulder.

"Do you think you could find a featherfrond fern while you're down there, Harry?" Luna's voice jolted him out of his self-imposed daze.

"A featherfrond fern?" Harry repeated, blinking in startlement. "Are they common in Hogsmeade?"

Luna's big silver eyes stared up at him serenely. "I really couldn't say. But Daddy says they provide a sense of comfort and warmth, and are lovely to hug on cold days. Their leaves are apparently as soft and warm as cotton down. Do you think they must be quite soft and warm then?"

Harry smiled down at his little blonde friend. "I really couldn't say. What are you looking for a featherfrond plant for, Luna?"

Those large grey eyes briefly glanced up and around the high ceiling of the Entrance Hall. Despite trying to follow her gaze, Harry couldn't see anything that might catch her eyes.

"I thought it might be interesting," Luna murmured, as he returned his gaze to her. "It's been quite cold around here recently, don't you think?"

Hermione looked up from her fussing. "I don't think the cold has anything to do with the weather or plants, Luna. I'm pretty sure we're uncomfortable for other reasons right now." She turned to Harry, "Did you hear that they are moving half of the Dementors down to the village for the day to keep the students safe? It's a real shame that none of Skeeter's articles had any effect on the Minister."

Harry gave her a patient look. "That's true. I suppose I should write her another letter. Maybe provide more quotes from the famous Harry Potter himself, perhaps."

Hermione snorted.

"In the meantime, I don't mind trying to find Luna a featherfrond plant while I'm down there, anyway." He turned back to the Ravenclaw. "Any shops you recommend?"

Now Luna's eyes looked confused and accusing, in that same soft, distant way of hers. "Well, I wouldn't know. I'm not a third-year, after all."

"True," Harry admitted. "Perhaps _Dogweed and Deathcap_? I'll try – "

He was interrupted by a hubbub of noise and the creak of the main doors opening halfway. Fresh sunlight and morning air spilt through the doors like the promise of the day.

"Alright, alright!" Filch's scratchy old voice snapped from within the middle of the crush. "One at a time, no pushing or I'll keep you behind."

"Have a lovely day, Harry," Luna smiled, as the crowd started jostling past her. "Stay warm."

Harry smiled in farewell, and then turned to wait with Hermione and the boys. The queue moved slower than he expected, but as Harry and his friends reached the front of the line they realised why. The grumpy old caretaker was checking students' names off against a long list of names. No matter what they said, or how they pleaded, he let one student through the door at a time, and only after finding their name on his parchment.

It didn't help that the parchment was longer than six feet in length, and trailed along the ground.

Finally, Harry reached the front of the lines.

"Harry Potter," he told the man, watching as Hermione and Neville slipped through the door ahead of him.

"Hold your horses," the caretaker snapped. "You wait until I'm good and ready to let you through. Don't rush me, I'll think you're trying something."

Harry stood patiently while the man peered down the list.

"Harry Potter," he murmured to himself. "Pilkey, Pot-, no…Porter…Potter. Ah. So you are on the list."

"Thanks," Harry said, and stepped forward.

"Wait one minute," Filch snapped, before Harry could step past. "You've got an administrative note here. You ain't going anywhere."

Surprised, Harry paused. The line behind him swelled in confusion and frustration as Filch shuffled sideways to slam the huge doors shut, locking in the crowd. Just before they closed, Harry saw the very confused faces of Neville and Hermione outside. It might have been Draco's blond hair behind them, too, but the view was gone before Harry could be sure.

Crumpling the long parchment up, Filch ignored the surging crowd as he stumped through them, moving off towards a side door.

Harry waited.

"What's going on?" voices asked.

He could have sworn he heard one of the Patil twins complain about being late for a date, only to be shouted down by other students. What kind of people had dates in third-year anyway, Harry wondered, absently confused?

The crowd began pushing and shoving as people began to be frustrated. Harry's feet shuffled awkwardly as he was knocked about by the sea of bodies. Someone's hair went up his nose, Harry fought back a sneeze.

Once his head had cleared, Harry realised that the crowd had swelled.

Some of the older students had arrived in the Hall, assuming that the queue was ending. The mutterings increased.

"What did you do, Harry?" Ron asked, lost.

Harry shrugged. "No idea."

The impatient jostling of the crowd began to build and surge, a trio of red-faced Hufflepuff girls were pushed up against Harry's body awkwardly. Their self-conscious giggles made Harry feel even worse about the situation.

"Get off've him!" Ron tried, but in the crush of the crowd, he could not haul the girls away from Harry.

* * *

Just as Harry was afraid that the whole crowd would riot, a stern voice cut through the chatter, and the students subsided back into sullen obedience. Filch had returned with a severe-looking Professor McGonagall behind him.

"Many thanks, Mr Filch," McGonagall said, before stiffly turning to Harry. "Potter, a moment, if you would. Follow me."

Looking in confusion at McGonagall's back, Harry motioned to Ron that he should go ahead, and followed after his Head of House. She took him into an antechamber and turned to face him heavily.

"What's wrong, Professor?" Harry inquired. "Has something happened? Is there a problem with my permission slip?"

"Not at all," McGonagall said sternly. "Your permission slip is perfectly authentic Potter, your aunt's signature genuine and truly given." Harry gave an invisible start. He'd had no idea that those things were possible to measure. But McGonagall continued on. "However, there is a problem of another kind. Under the circumstances, Mr Potter, perhaps your visiting Hogsmeade this year might not be for the best."

Harry felt indignant. "What do you mean, Professor? I've done everything I needed to, I'm keeping up with my classmates! This was gonna be my reward for hard work!"

"That be as it may, I'm afraid that wiser minds do not recommend—"

"You're letting Hermione go!"

McGonagall coughed, and then subtly ignored how Harry had just interrupted her. Perhaps she, also, felt bad for having this conversation. "Perhaps I did not make myself clear. There is no problem with your school work, your teachers tell me you are performing admirably. However, due to security concerns surrounding the castle at this time, it is not recommended you travel outside. I'm sure you understand."

Realisation came to Harry with a thud. The burgeoning anger seemed to settle in his stomach like cold, hard guilt. Dementors. Even though he hadn't even fainted on the train! "Oh, I'm sure I'm not in any personal danger Professor."

"Mister Potter," Professor McGonagall interrupted, and then seemed to sigh. "Potter, I was under the impression that Arthur Weasley had spoken to you. I received mail from him indicating that he had passed on some kind of communication to you on September the first?"

"Ye-es," Harry admitted, and then realised what she meant. "You think that I, personally, will be in danger at Hogsmeade. You're not talking about the Dementors."

"Indeed," she looked guiltily solemn. "I see you understand."

"But Professor – " Harry burst out, irritation surging forth. McGonagall levelled a stern, pitying stare at him, and the words stuck in his throat. "But I did everything right," Harry mumbled. He'd been so looking forward to enjoying the day with his friends. And he'd had plans, dammit. Important plans. "It's not fair," he muttered under his breath.

McGonagall fixed him with her piercing stare. "Potter, I hope you appreciate how much thought and effort is being put into keeping you safe. I am not at liberty to discuss precisely what security considerations have been made for you, but I expect you to show maturity and wisdom in your actions."

Every single Dementor at Hogwarts was there because the Ministry thought Sirius was after him, Harry realised. That was an unpleasant thought.

Harry breathed in. "I…" He stopped.

There wasn't really much he could explain.

McGonagall continued to look at him pityingly. "I'm sure this won't be for long, Potter. The Dementors will be removed from Hogwarts grounds as soon as the security threat is taken away. The Minister assures us all that everything will be resolved promptly."

"…Indeed."

"Precisely." To give her credit, Professor McGonagall didn't look too convinced by the Minister's persuasion either, but she was clearly going to stop him leaving the castle. "Just a short while, Mr Potter. Perhaps you could enjoy some peace and quiet in the Common Room for today."

"Thanks, Professor," Harry said, with a sigh. "I…alright. Thanks." His Head of House gave an approving nod. "I guess I have homework to do." He saw himself out of the little room quietly.

Despite the slow footsteps, the bowed head, and the creased on his brow, Harry's mind raced fast, fast, fast.

He was disappointed, depressed, but not deterred.


	22. Courtly Goings On

Half an hour later saw Harry peek out of the trapdoor into the basement of _Honeydukes_ , his Invisibility Cloak clutched tightly around his body. Despite the busy sounds of ringing tills and chattering voices that reached his ears, the basement itself was dark and quiet, and within seconds Harry was standing, hidden, within Hogsmeade proper.

He took a moment or three to blink rapidly, eyes adjusting to the sudden daylight, and had to take a rapid step backwards as a senior – and very large – Hufflepuff student strode straight through the position Harry had been standing in.

Stepping carefully, Harry found his way to the sweets section that was most popular with Hogwarts students. Polished wooden shelves containing huge, deep glass containers of Pepper Imps and Jaw Breakers and Bouncing Gum Balls were surrounded by children, surging crowds of children looking for the perfect treat.

Eagerly, his memories full of Ron and Hermione's voices, Harry listened out for their excited chatter, buying him Fizzing Whizzbees, perhaps.

 _Just like last time_ , Harry caught himself thinking. His mates always had spared a thought or two his way. The anticipating was warm and familiar.

But the buzzing crowd didn't seem to contain his friends. Harry stood there in the quieter isle corner, hesitating.

Should he…?

Perhaps…? His eagerness to meet up with his friends burned within him; just like last time, his friendships were strong. Thoughtful. Supportive…

Then a quiet voice within his subconscious mind pulled his eager footsteps back. He had more secrets now. If they had ever known, they'd forgotten he even _owned_ an Invisibility Cloak.

Harry nibbled his lower lip awkwardly. Secrets could save lives…

He sighed, shoulders sagging.

Then Harry convinced himself that he shouldn't push his luck, and drew the invisibility hood further over his head. He could tell his friends that he spent the day at the castle, as he rightly should be, and keep himself out of the public eye until his appointment with Mr Floyd-Elliot, at two o'clock.

Having timed his exit from the shop well, sneaking out rapidly as a single Gryffindor sixth year strode in with a generous push of the door, Harry kept to the sides of the busy High Street.

His quick, quiet footsteps pattered rapidly down the cobblestones, staying well away from any suspicious cold spots that suggested Dementors might he waiting around a couple of corners.

It wasn't that difficult to do, Harry noticed idly, still a little upset about his very mature decision. But all the students tended to avoid the unwelcome Dementor chill, so it was actually relatively easy for him to squeeze through the hesitant crowds and disappear away from the thongs.

He wasn't sulking, definitely not sulking about it, but Harry's coincidental bad mood lightened a little bit at this small, unexpected success.

Having successfully made it past the most popular ten shops or so, it became much easier to step away from the centre of the village, the 'tourist' part of town, where students huddled. Harry, after all, had spent hours exploring this place over his holidays.

Above him, pale clouds chased each other across the sky and the wind was blustery but not too cold. Harry paused in his steps to consider the best use of his time.

There was no use trying to buy that fern for Luna, and he needed to tell Draco that the 'best present' competition had to be postponed too. He should keep his secrets, after all.

Well, he did need to prepare to work on the Grimmauld Place gardens, after all.

In the opposite direction to the road to Hogwarts, Harry found his way to the edge of the village and paused, looking at the encroaching forest in deep thought.

There was no specific pathway he could follow, Harry discovered, as the worn dirt ground before his feet faded away into dense green shrubbery and taller, looming trees. Perhaps it had been a deer trail? Unicorn trail?

But it led nowhere that wizards would want to go.

He got out his wand thoughtfully, and glanced once in the direction of the sun.

"Point me," Harry muttered under his breath, lips moving silently. And, as the tip of his wand spun steadily to show him true north, Harry stepped directly up the hill – south-west-ish – and deeper into the treeline.

* * *

It only took him forty minutes of stepping over logs and undergrowth for Harry to find a little alcove. He was probably technically still within the outskirts of the Forest, Harry supposed, but here was deep enough that the huge trees towered well beyond his line of sight; no sign of blue sky or clouds could be seen beyond the rustling liveliness above him.

Harry gazed upwards. The canopy above him seemed thick with leaves and vines and branches thicker than his waist. All the light that managed to filter through seemed slow, sleepy and somehow…green.

A miniscule little creek trickled downhill, but in between the slopes, where the hill tapered off into a tiny pocket of flat wetland, a shallow layer of water pooled.

Perfectly fitting, perfectly waterproof boots squelched through the groundcover, Harry's conjuration having become quite sophisticated with daily practice. Then Harry paused, surveyed the sight, and was pleased.

Darker shapes, familiar shapes lay, reclined, grew in the undergrowth and shrubbery, and his keen, green eyes surveyed the alcove carefully.

Harry's eyebrows rose in pleasurable surprise. This was exactly what he wanted. Despite their current appearance, this little glen hid a number of unusually _active_ plants.

He knew they were there, Harry's years of Herbology had taught him to identify plants at the very least, and they waited for him in silence. Lush, inviting, and very, very still, the forest floor seemed to hold its breath as numerous plants played dead and tried to lure Harry in.

Here on the forest floor, where direct light never quite reached, and decaying leaves lay scattered over soft and squelchy soil, a number of rather large, possibly devious plants grew.

Here, he could spend a number of surprisingly satisfying hours wrestling with plant life. It was good practice for when he needed to set up the Fidelius, after all, but also it would just _feel good_ to stumble down into the little swampy basin in the forest and whip the unusually active plants there into submission.

Harry tucked his Cloak away safely, grabbed his wand, and didn't even notice the wide grin that spread across his face.

"Alright then!"

Harry stood firm, legs spread wide and stable, as he paused once in anticipation. Soon, he could slowly but surely build up a sweat even despite the heavy shadows of the huge, towering trees that stretched skywards.

Harry bounced once, on his toes.

Then he cast.

The silence broke and plantlife _surged._

As Harry wielded his wand to cast _petrificus totalus_ on the largest snargaluff vines, small midges and other insects droned and buzzed around his ankles. Its creepers _snapped up_ and froze like street lamps as Harry's wandlight hit them square on.

As the threatening tanglevines surged towards Harry like waves and then writhed under the torment of a tickling charm, the steady drone of insect harmonies continued uninterrupted.

He steady feet barely slipped, even on the slick, wet leaves on the forest floor, as Harry cast stunners at fanged geraniums in flashes of light and sudden brightness to see how they reacted. Above him, the unfamiliar calls of too many birds to name echoed and resounded from above him in the canopy. The swift beats of birdwing rattled around the various tree branches in unexpected bursts of noise. Well above Harry's line of sight, dark shadows flitted, too fast to be seen, leaving only the sudden shaking of branches and rustling of leaves to hint at where they had come from.

By the time Harry had finished experimenting with petrification, freezing charms, tickling charms and more, all the deadly and threatening plants at his wand tip – venomous tentacula, Devil's Snare, screechsnap and more – were withdrawn and curled up protectively against him. Now, Harry knew which spells would work best on hi—on _Sirius'_ garden.

Harry could freeze them, shrink them, move them, chase them, avoid them…and figured that should be enough to dash around on a broomstick and set resonating sigils on the ward lines nearby.

High above him, some kind of…bird or squirrel, maybe?...had been attracted by his flashing lights and the sounds of spells hitting. When Harry paused in his barrage to shake out his shoulders, or catch his breath, or grab a quick drink from _aquamenti_ , the little creature mimicked his noises eagerly.

" _Cack_!" the single little animal imitated shrilly. " _Ka-shick! Phoom!"_

Harry snickered quietly, flicked a quick gaze up to see if he could spot the critter, and then went back to making his own sounds again.

After that first, heady twenty-minute workout, Harry had learned all he needed to. The sweat from his shoulders had soaked through his robes and the droplets on his forehead had evaporated, leaving him significantly chillier than expected. Half to warm up, half for fun, Harry finished them all up with a fire whip – because he could.

He spun on his heel and Apparated directly to the kitchen of Grimmauld Place. Fortunately, there were no more watchers on the street who might hear the noise of Apparition or see the flash of spell-light, so he could do his job quickly and without worry.

A satisfied Kreacher cracked ushered him out the backdoor eagerly, into a foot-wide little barricade of old wood and a couple of...kitchen chairs?

"This is why we don't have a set in the kitchen?" Harry asked mindlessly, seeing the handmade barricade that defended the backdoor against the encroaching garden."

Kreacher stood behind him in the open door and twisted his ears guiltily. "Kreacher is needing to dig his holes to get his roots," he defended. "And Kreacher is not making holes in the mistress' good kitchen basement."

"I...I get it," Harry reassured the thing quickly. "You've done well. The, uh, garden can't even approach the back door, or your, um, hole, like this."

Kreacher preened a little in pride.

Harry stood on tiptoes to try and peer through a gap – there must be a gap somewhere, surely – of the makeshift defence. He couldn't find a weakness in the sprawling, net-like weave of wood scraps and furniture.

"Er, do you mind if I Vanish it?" Harry asked awkwardly. "I don't want to set anything on fire this close to the house, but I've got to get at the garden somehow."

"If we is rescuing the kitchen chairs," Kreacher permitted, and Harry rolled up his sleeves.

* * *

Still feeling hot and embarrassed over his last mistake – _forgetting about the back garden, honestly_ – Harry found himself sheltering behind a rescued kitchen chair and casting quickly at the encroaching garden. Certain plants were very determined to break into the house and when Kreacher's barrier had disappeared, Harry had had to cast quickly.

He spent a solid ten minutes just spelling enough space for him to stand on the landing outside, the backdoor closed behind him.

The destruction felt good: every foot he earned back from the garden was one less reason to be embarrassed next time Harry tried to Fidelius the house. Harry felt a manic grin spread its way across his face; adrenaline rushed as his wand danced. It felt good to be in the moment. His heartbeat raced and each breath was full of cold fresh air that had Harry's nerves tingle and eyes burning bright.

He felt his wand heat up as spell after spell was dashed off and impacted the seething mass of branches and roots and vines. Small spell lights splashed against the dark green and purple plants; they shrilled and recoiled as Harry burned his way forward, froze the attacking limbs, severed small parts.

Kreacher worked with him, wandering below ground in his excavated tunnels; Harry had instructed him to build a big fire and burn the plant roots with torches while Harry spelled them from above.

The plants _screamed_ , Harry noticed idly while he worked. Not all of them were audibly, but those that weren't were shivering and frozen, tendrils and roots and new growth curled up and trembling in terror as he advanced inexorably, a growing patch of bare ground expanding out from where Harry stood, still safe. He imagined they were screaming in plant-speak, at any rate.

Something burnt and black crackled under his foot, and Harry sent a severing charm skimming over the ground to clear up the dead groundcover.

"Evanesco," he muttered audibly, forgetting for a moment to cast wordlessly due to his excitement. Dead matter vanished instantly, leaving Harry to direct more fire at small, surviving plant-life so he could advance his feet safely.

He found himself panting a little with exertion, his lips dry. Satisfaction burned in his chest. 'Keep on, advance, beat them back,' he found himself thinking rhythmically. Step by step he moved forward.

A number of fallen trees he let lie, the ground around them cleared of danger: some, he hoped, seemed to have seedlings or saplings growing in their shade and Harry had the vague idea of restoring the garden to usefulness one day. It was the huge, threatening, man-eating types that obviously kept Harry busy though, and he grew sweaty, muscles actually beginning to ache as he ducked and wove and _fought_ with the most dangerous of growth.

Most he got rid of immediately, as soon as he conquered. That way, Harry found himself advancing through the garden two meters or so at a time, the better to access his next opponent. Waves of disruption and disturbance rippled through the plants ahead as he advanced.

"...Winning..." he snatched the thought briefly before his mind refocused on the approaching dark tendril on his right. "More," Harry muttered between spells. "Faster."

A lone droplet of sweat lost its hold against his jaw and fell to Harry's neckline with a plop. His breath was heavy, muscles beginning to actually protest.

"Finished, young master!" Kreacher's croaky voice called from behind him. "The roots is being burned dead or chopped into itty-bitty pieces for firewood tonight. Work hard, mad young master! The House of Black is rebuilding once more!"

Harry snorted, didn't even glance back, kept on.

It was a good thing the wind was quick, because the work was heavy going and Harry overheated rapidly. He scrubbed a forearm over his dripping brow and caught his breath for a moment.

"Tempus."

One hour until his meeting with the lawyer. Harry figured he could raze most of the rest of the garden in that time.

He went back to work.

* * *

When the time came, it was a matter of moments to spin on his heel and apparate with a loud pop, appearing almost instantly under the huge, familiar aspen tree that stood within eyesight of _Alfredo's Assorted Victuals_. Harry simply hadn't been able to think of a more appropriate, private meeting place than that little out-of-the-way diner place, which was why he had organised to meet with Mr Lloyd-Elliot there.

Mostly hidden in the shade of the tree and the shadow of the signpost beneath it, Harry took a moment to twitch his wand over his body with a silent flick; eliminating the earthy forest dirt and garden remnants, the shine and smell of his sweat. Then another wand twitch straightened the scruffiness of his assemblage of robes, which seemed like the thing to do just before meeting your lawyer for a very important meeting.

Sirius, the rhythm of Harry's feet seemed to beat out as Harry turned to walk towards the leafy oak grove that surrounded Alfredo _'s_. Sirius, the door creaked as he opened it with his empty right hand. _Sirius, Sirius, Sirius_ , his heart thumped, speeding up in the excitement that _this_ meeting, _this_ information might be what was necessary for his godfather to be free.

Harry paused a mere moment before seeing the familiar, stern figure sitting professionally in one of the upright seats near a window.

"Mr Lloyd-Elliot," Harry greeted, hand outstretched for a handshake.

"Mr Potter."

The sound of chair legs on polished wood screeched as Harry pulled back the chair opposite the lawyer, and settled himself down eagerly for the ensuing conversation.

"You've found the trial records?" Harry asked, too eager for generic small talk.

Deep eyes under those magnificent owlish eyebrows glimmered at Harry with understanding. "I believe I have all the information you first enquired of me."

"Great," said Harry, leaning forward on his elbows. His heartbeat was rapid, the pulse in his temple beating distractedly but Harry didn't even notice, all his focus concentrated firmly on the tall, thin man before him. "Do you…Can we just dive straight into it, then? What can you—"

"Coffee, zir?" a smooth voice interrupted.

Harry jumped, but without waiting for a response, clever hands began arranging and organising and then pouring coffee in front of Harry. Familiar hands, Harry realised with a split-second glance. They were large and dexterous, with prominent knuckles and very clean fingernails.

"Oh, um..."

The owner of the eatery began pouring. Warm, aromatic liquid gurgled out of the coffee decanter's spout.

"Thanks, I guess."

Harry's nervous energy was arrested and he forced himself to still and calm, as the dribbling trickle of a dark roast rapidly poured into his cup. The warm heat rose in a cloud of steam, billowing towards Harry's face to caress it with warmth. He inhaled. 

Opposite Harry, Mr Lloyd-Elliot already had his own cup, and cradled it carefully in his hands, enjoying the scent of fresh, dark coffee with closed eyelids. His magnificent eyebrows – Harry could never ignore that fabulous owl-ish sweep – his eyebrows seemed to bristle with pleasure and satisfaction.

Harry spared a moment to eye him curiously. Proper British tea was very popular with wizards, and this man seemed to have a more _Continental_ taste.

"A marvellous blend," Mr Lloyd-Elliot admired, nodding once, carefully, in the direction of the man serving Harry. Then he nodded at Harry. "A remarkable choice of meeting place, Mr Potter. I shall visit this establishment again."

"At your zervice, zir," the proprietor replied with a closed-lipped smile.

Then he disappeared from Harry's side silently, leaving Harry to eye his lawyer with eagerness.

"Sorry for the rush," Harry apologised shamefaced. "I was, I was rude. This is really important to me. What have you got?"

After another slow sip of coffee and then the stern gentleman placed his coffee cup precisely on the table in front of him with barely a clink. He reached into the briefcase by his knee.

"Understood, Mr Potter," he forgave with a thin smile. "I apologise for the time it has taken me to locate the information you requested of me, but with all due diligence I am pleased to say I have succeeded."

Harry shuffled impatiently in his chair. "Yes? Go on?"

"Unfortunately, Mr Potter, you were not entirely correct in your assumptions that Sirius Black was given no trial," the stern man continued, and a frown chased its way across Harry's face.

"Wait, what? But—"

"However, the wizard continued, "you were not entirely incorrect, either. Please take a few minutes to peruse this transcript."

Harry raised both eyebrows as his lawyer pulled a small sheet of parchment out of his briefcase and pushed it – oops, two sheets, he'd been wrong – across the table to Harry. His initial excitement and eagerness turned into cautious curiosity in his gut.

Harry reached out with his right hand, warily. "What's this?"

"The only existing trial records for on Sirius Black," the man explained, voice dry. "Take a moment to familiarise yourself with them, and then we shall talk."

Harry's green eyes scanned the first page of parchment inquisitively. It was yellowed and unbending, apparently aged, if the inflexible dryness on his fingertips was any indication. The edges of the parchment were, not rumpled, but ragged, as if years of storage had somehow taken its toll. As his nimble hands brought the parchment closer towards him, Harry smelt the strong scent of dust, and mildew and – somehow – stone.

Upon the yellowed pages, faded black ink was scrawled.

 _November 6, 1981_ , the cursive script proclaimed.

_Before the Hon. Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement_

_Transcript for the Trial against defendant: Sirius Black_

_For: the murder Peter Pettigrew and twelve muggles, and as an accomplice in the murder of James Potter and Lily, his wife. Accessory to attempted murder of Harry Potter, child of the above._

"What?" Harry gasped, disbelieving eyes searching the face of the wizard who sat before him. "But I always thought that Sirius never got a trial. He _said_ —I mean, no one ever said anything about him getting one?"

"Proceed."

Harry frowned once more. "Okay then…?" He looked back at down at the… transcript… in front of him. The room they were in was almost silent except for the wind in the oak trees outside.

_The Court: Alright, alright. Next. Who've we got?_

_Court Usher: Er…Sirius Black, sir._

_The Court: Damn the bastard. Alright, let's get this over with._

_[Defendant Black is brought to the stand, restrained.]_

_The Court: Sirius Black, you have been brought to stand trial for the murder of Peter Pettigrew – your best friend – and twelve muggles who were unable to defend themselves against your wand. Furthermore, you are standing trial for being the Secret Keeper and therefore betrayer of your brother in all but blood, James Potter and his wife, Lily Potter nee Evans, as an accessory to their murder. Finally, you are accused of being an accessory to the attempted murder of their child and your god-child, Harry Potter, being one year of age. How do you plead?_

_The Defendant: [Gibbers. Howls loudly. Attempts to lunge forward, but Aurors restrain him.]_

_The Crown: Mr Black. You stand here before the full Wizengamot accused of three crimes, each of which might send you to Azkaban for between ten to eighty years imprisonment. How do you plead?_

_The Defendant: [Howls again. Some kind of giggling-weeping thing. Sounds creepy, if you ask me (Court scribe, Mildred Macallister, if anyone's asking).]_

_Wizengamot: [Uncomfortable rustling and whispers.]_

_The Court: [Bangs gavel] Order, order. I will have order in the court, thank you very much. Now, Black, what've you got to say for yourself, eh?_

_The Defendant: Gaaaah! [Howls increase, shakes head, seems to roar. He's frothing at the lips a little. Not a good look. Wizengamot mutters.]_

_The Court: Well, let's not waste any more time then. All in favour of declaring him guilty for all three counts, raise your wands._

_[Wizengamot responds.]_

_The Court: Sirius Black, I declare you guilty of murder, accessory to murder, and accessory to attempted murder. Your wand will be taken and snapped…yada-yada. May you rot in Azkaban where you belong. Take him away._

_[Defendant led off in chains]._

Harry felt his stomach tighten, worried and concerned. His forehead creased and he couldn't stop himself from nibbling on his lower lip again. Then he turned back a page, slowly, to read over the transcript once more, eyes lingering on each word. Finally, he skimmed the parchment, all two pages of it, all at once.

"I," Harry began, hesitant and unsure. "I don't get it. Where's the rest?"

Mr Lloyd-Elliot gently placed his mug of coffee down, and thumbed the liquid residue precisely off his top lip. "This is the full extent of Mr Black's trial in front of the Wizengamot, Mr Potter. Again, I apologise for the delay in getting this to you, but I, too, was originally expecting a complete trial record, not…this."

Harry flipped back to the first page. "Well, yeah, that's...well, it is what it is, I guess. Just …where're the witnesses? The defence wizard? The evidence – I mean, _prior encantato_ and all that?"

Mr Lloyd-Elliot very expressively raised a single one of his great, sweeping eyebrows and paused.

"Mr Potter, what you must understand is that a lot of very dangerous criminals were tried at or around the same time as your…godfather. I found this, misfiled in the records of petty theft crimes after digging through the materials by hand. It was blatantly not an organised time."

Harry shrugged. "Well okay, but…look! Sirius didn't even get a chance to say anything. I mean…he's in shock, based on this record! Catatonic or insensible or whatever the word is. I mean, it doesn't look to me like he even realised he was on trial, here."

"Indeed." Mr Lloyd-Elliot retrieved the parchment carefully from Harry and glanced through them again, before reshuffling them back into his briefcase. "If, as you say, you have been in…contact," he pronounced delicately, "with an associate of your godfather – perhaps his mother's lawyer, who visited Azkaban once in 1985 after her death?"

"What?" Harry asked. Then he remembered that Sirius Black was 'currently at large' and 'unaccounted for'. "Oh! I mean, yeah, sure. Of course."

Mr Lloyd-Elliot nodded carefully. "Then, it would be perfectly possible for Mr Black to claim he had never been given a trial. The transcript here – minimal though it is – suggests that Mr Black was not functioning well at this time at all."

"Well, obviously. I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't realise what was going on at all."

"As you say."

Harry cocked his head, his forehead still wrinkled and guilt weighing on his shoulders. "So now what?"

Glancing once more into his coffee cup and appearing to be mildly disappointed it was empty, Mr Lloyd-Elliot then sat a little straighter and steepled his fingers together thoughtfully.

"That, Mr Potter, will depend on your next instructions. You appear to be of the opinion that Sirius Black, your…godfather…is not guilty of these crimes. Are you interested in attempting to have a mistrial declared? Perhaps a retrial? Or an appeal?"

Harry also straightened, and then thoughtfully took a quill and new parchment out of his mokeskin pouch. He settled them on the table before him carefully and then nibbled the top of his quill feather, once.

"Alright," Harry muttered thoughtfully. "Can you represent his interests in this for me, please? And explain to me precisely what the difference is between those three things? I'd like to take notes," he rushed out. "And I might have to do some more thinking before I decide, but I want him found innocent, in the end."

Harry clenched his left fist. "Innocent so the whole of wizarding Britain knows."

"I see…" the lawyer drawled slowly. He settled back in his chair, speaking thoughtfully. "Please be aware, Mr Potter, that the cost of any of your options will be steep. But on that basis, the first thing you should know…"


End file.
